


One Week

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Politics, Dark, Diplomat Connor, Drinking & Talking, Dystopia, False Accusations, Immigration & Emigration, Implied Sexual Content, Labour Trafficking, M/M, Original Character(s), Politician Freddie, Totalitarian Governments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-07-10 07:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19902124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: Denmark is said to be the happiest country in the world, even after it closed its borders. Connor has one week to find out how.





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> **disclaimer:** this story presents an alternate denmark that does not accurately reflect the country that exists today. all descriptions of everyday life should be accepted as part of an alternate universe. this is a work of fiction that does not claim to represent or comment on anything
> 
> i figured after i nuclear bombed canada in my last alternate reality fic and then destroyed america and the national hockey league in the next i would look into something else to keep my hands busy. this is a product of the writing prompt "what if the happiest country in the world had something it wasn't telling us" and it evolved from there.
> 
> if you have any questions or need anything tagged please don't hesitate to contact me. i think i also need to say i know very little about foreign politics and the lives of ambassadors outside my own research (which of course, isn't guaranteed to be accurate). any help is appreciated but when you're reading taking liberties looks like the best way to go.

The plane ride to Denmark is long.

Nine hours, in fact. Even being in first-class doesn’t make the length easier to swallow. Connor takes up both his seat and the one next to him with his binders of research and cue cards. In his head, he’s rehearsing what he’s going to say in verbatim. Nothing makes him feel whole or accomplished; none of it makes him feel like he’s the right person for the job.

All of the practice in the world isn’t going to be enough to prepare him for where he’s going. Yet, the other people he’s with rock with the plane’s turbulence, undisturbed. He doubts any of them are having second thoughts. He’s not seen Maria or Albert look down at their phone for any longer than a second. Their age hardens them into soldiers.

There are no other planes in the sky with them to share the clouds and the landing strips with. No other passengers sit with them to see the seatbelt light turn on or hear the pilot’s announcement that they’re flying over the islands. Even just by looking out the passenger seat window, Connor can see the diversity of the land: the windswept beaches and rugged rock coasts. They are sights that transcend the geography.

It looks so normal, so calm. White sand beaches feather the surrounding area. With his pointer finger, he traces the edge, collecting dust and leaving a gray smudge behind. His best efforts to find something that looks wrong all fail.

Their government tried to prepare them for the worst, considering some parts of the mainland active war zones, unable to be accessed by both locals and foreigners. That kind of description doesn’t give you a lot of wiggle room. It’s one of those things even a diplomatic passport won’t get you to, not that Connor has any reason to want to go there. In that way, he’s different from the group. Having never worked with them before, he’s still in the process of trying to figure out what their goals are: evidently, a lot of them are looking at the Canadian side of life in Denmark, what their citizens are up to. As he looks down at gentle surf below, he thinks he wants to see life in Denmark up close. He wants to know if all the rumours are true: why they closed the borders and what happened at those political demonstrations a year ago.

It’s hard to form expectations around accusations and government statements. Denmark could be anything from an active war zone to life at home on the ranch and he’s torn between the two possibilities. Allegations online from a complete government crackdown to a conspiracy theory about Russian involvement and a coup d'état style takeover are on the rise. A country like Denmark doesn’t just disappear off the maps as it did. Everyone thinks they have the answer but it’s a bunch of bogus. Connor tries not to look too far into it.

They don’t land at the national airport but at a cement strip a mile or two out from Copenhagen. Connor tries to chase down the butterflies in his stomach with a net when the wheels touch the ground. The other diplomats there with him are excited to get out and stretch their legs. He would like to stay suspended for another minute.

There’s a whole entourage out there to meet them. The Danes stand in a semi-circle on the tarmac, around the stairs; they’re holding their coats close to them, stuffing their hands in their pockets. The six Canadians walk out one by one, Connor bringing up the rear. Their cameraman gets one long panning shot of what they’re looking at, for the viewers back home. Connor tries to step out of frame so he won’t be in the way, even if that’s the intention.

Everyone is cordial with each other. Their crash course on how to show respect isn’t going to earn the Canadian a gold medal but at least they don’t look like fish out of water, minus the language barrier they make up for on both sides with translators. 

In between handshakes, Connor slips on a pair of gloves. It’s colder here.

He comes to the end of the line and meets a man that has a few inches on him. A member of the staff introduces him as Andersen, the last member of the King’s Court or _Kongens Retterting_ as they say in Danish. They're the ones responsible for the Denmark they have today. They derive their names and laws from old nationalist policies and foundations dating back to the 1600s. It, many say, is an attempt to go back to what many perceive to be better times.

He wouldn’t call Andersen a look at the past. His name is synonymous with his work in advancing civil rights. He was always somewhat conservative on letterhead but with the best interests of the people at heart. In person, he doesn't look anything like how the papers described him. He's young and, to be informal, _huge_. His suit looks like it has problems containing him.

“Connor Brown, yes?” he asks as Connor nears.

Connor walks into his shadow as he moves to greet him. “Mr. Andersen, it’s a pleasure.” He takes his hand in his and adds in a: “nice hair.”

It succeeds in getting the other man to smile, which makes him look friendlier. “Thank you. I could say the same to you.”

“On behalf of Canada, I thank you for your hospitality in having us here today.”

“Believe me, the pleasure is all ours.”

Something about Andersen’s presence is powerful. He makes everyone around him disappear when he talks. Connor thinks it shows in his eyes because Andersen preens as he’s talking; he tucks a stray hair behind his ear, his chest puffing up. 

Andersen stays by his side as the Canadians grab their luggage. Connor indulges him with what he saw when they were flying over Denmark: the beaches and hedgerows he tries to describe to the best of his ability. Andersen smiles back at Connor, the corner of his eyes turning up. 

Their coordinating director, Max, gives Connor a sour look for what he only imagines is because he’s talking so much. After that, Connor can’t help but think that Andersen is only amused with him, not entertained. It makes him draw into himself; he picks his bag up and wheels it out onto the uneven rocky ground, leaving Andersen behind him.

They need the Danes to unlock the chain-link fence separating them from the small building they have on campus, a small customs that looks at their passports and checks their identity. There’s no one else around. Not a single pedestrian crosses the road. Even the famous bikes are nowhere to be seen. It’s strange, because there are roads, fields, and houses nearby. 

A convoy of cars picks them up in the lot, all black down to their wheels and with tinted windows. With the group as big as it is, the Canadians are separated into three groups of two. The public servants load the trunk, both drivers holding their back seat doors open. Connor is sandwiched between their cameraman and Andersen. It makes sense: not small but he is slim. He’s easier to shape compared to the two bigger men on each side.

Big is no understatement, the width of Andersen’s shoulders forces Connor to lean to the side while he’s adjusting his seat belt. It feels mean to cram him in the back with them. 

“Mr. Andersen--” Connor speaks up.

“Frederik, please.” He corrects Connor, without even looking at him.

“Frederik, you don’t have to sit back here with us.”

It makes Frederik pause. “Am I bothering you?”

“Of course not. I figured it would be more comfortable for you.”

“Lars will sit up front. I don’t mind being in the back.”

The passenger seat opens and a blond-haired man takes his seat. He turns around, hooking his chin over the seat to look at them. He was one of the first hands Connor shook in the lineup.

“All good?”

“Yes, thank you,” Connor says. Frederik agrees with what he said by adding a small nod.

The engine starts up, puffing out black smoke from the tailpipe. A rumble accompanies them. It’s the undercurrent to Connor’s thoughts. He tries to sit and organize his thoughts. His hands hold each other.

Frederik nudges his thigh with his knee. It brings Connor back down to Earth. “I’m glad you like what you see so far. You have a way with words.”

“I thought I was annoying you.”

Frederik looks out the window. The reflection of winter’s desolation opens up in his eyes. “No. I don’t mind.”

When Connor looks up, he can see Lars Eller looking at them using the rear-facing mirror. The corners of his mouth wrinkle in what he thinks is a smile but can’t see, because the mirror cuts off. 

They’re going to be staying at a private hotel chain owned by one of the members on the board. In preparation for their arrival, they booked the whole thing out. Connor would ask why they are here and not at a province-sponsored hotel, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to be a problem. It’s got the same functions as an embassy and is established deep enough into the city that it doesn’t make transportation a problem. 

All of the Canadians are housed on the third floor. Also on the third floor, the Danes. Four representatives from their new parliament will be with them. Randomly chosen, they say. It’s going to be the ones that were in the vehicles with them, a temporary measure. "For their safety and the safety of others," they say.

He knows now that Frederik speaking with him was no coincidence. It’s that side of himself again that reads too much into everything around him and thinks that people come over to him because there’s a genuine liking. In this kind of profession, that’s unspeakable. You make friends on paper and paper only. He has to stop getting ahead of himself here, it opens the world up to more hurt. He did like Frederik, he’s just not sure if Frederik likes him or was humouring what he had to say because he knows for the next week they will have to be spending time together.

Connor’s adrenaline inside of him fizzles out in bright red streamers. His right shoe gets stuck on his foot and he spends two minutes trying to free it from his foot, gradually becoming more frustrated. Finally, he says to hell with it and kicks both shoes to the side of his bed, where they stay. He rolls his bag to the far side of the room by the window curtains and lies it on its belly, opening up the contents using the zipper. He only manages to get his toiletries into the bathroom before the overpowering urge to sleep whacks him over the side of the head.

On the way back, he notices the safe wedged in between the corner of the end table and the wall. The thought of putting something inside of it is a flash in the pan. They probably know the password, or at least how to open it. Normally, that’d be fine. For this assignment, they were told to exercise more cautious, not take for granted their security and privacy. They are not to look at Denmark as being their friends. 

They’re summoned downstairs not twenty minutes after being allowed to enter their rooms by a man with a thick head of blond hair. When Connor answers the door, he gives him a too-wide smile. The hairs on his beard flick.

“Nikolaj Ehlers,” he introduces himself. “I’m from the Danish Trade Council.”

“Connor Brown.”

“We are all waiting for you downstairs. Please, come with me.”

Connor could groan. Eight hours on a plane means the last thing he wants to put himself through is a bunch of hamfisted introductions. It’s his job, he reminds himself. He might not like it right now but it is his job. He can stay awake for thirty more minutes.

He gives himself a moment, psyches himself up, and agrees to meet them in two. 

So, he puts his shoes _back_ on his feet, runs a comb through his hair, and meets up with the Canadians, blinking every few seconds just to help keep their eyes open. 

They put them in a small conference room on the left-wing, down from the lobby. They’re not met with the whole political body but a quick selection of authorities, none of whom they have seen before. It doesn’t look like things will take a very long time, no one has coffee or tea with them and there’s not a paper in sight par from a stack of forms to the centre lady’s left.

“We know you’re very tired,” one of their hosts says, in English. There is barely the swipe of an accent present in her voice. “We’d just like to go over some ground rules for your stay here.”

The man beside her distributes the forms and some black pens. The font is too small for Connor’s bleary eyes to make sense of right now.

The lady goes on to explain. “We’d like to ask that you don’t leave the hotel without our permission first. As you may know, we’ve been subject to a few unfortunate events as of late, so for your safety we need to know where you are at all times. If you need to go somewhere, there will be a few of us on standby here at the hotel.”

One of the consular ambassadors, Maria, raises her hand. “Are there active war zones or places we should avoid?”

“It won’t matter, we won’t be going anywhere near those destinations. I must advise you that the Rigspolitiet, our national police, have the right to question you if you are acting suspicious. If you are with us, this can be avoided. Also, we’d like to ask that you don’t speak to locals without our permission.”

Maria taps her finger on the table in front of them. “Why not?”

“This visit is going to attract a lot of media attention and the more people we are around, the greater the risk. This isn’t to say you can’t speak to locals period, we will just specify when and where it’s allowed.”

No one has the energy to ask more questions, at least not right now. It wouldn’t even matter if they argued. Denmark doesn’t have to do anything for them while they’re here. Beggars can’t be choosers, as they say.

Connor uses the ballpoint to sign his name on the bottom right section of his paper. He hands it to their translator, an older gentleman who has visited Denmark in the past. He looks it over for them. Halfway through, he snaps open his glasses case and squints.

It turns out to be a false alarm and they close out with the promise of some fun activities tomorrow. Connor could care less, he wants to sleep. The feeling he gets from being able to stick his key card in the door and close it behind him cannot go underestimated.


	2. Tuesday

The week begins with a trip to Nyhavn. It’s at the top of the list, bolded, underlined, and italicized. 

One of the first images that would come to mind when someone says the word Denmark would be the canal and the harbour surrounding it; a line of colourful houses that resemble incandescent Christmas bulbs. Connor has never been there in person, not before Denmark closed in on itself. The only times he remembers seeing it would be on the backs of postcards you would find on a spinning display rack at travel agencies. 

Nothing looks different. He feels like it should but it doesn’t, minus there being no boats at the docks. Connor’s not satisfied with just looking, he wants to touch. He looks into every store window even when there’s no one inside. Being here makes him feel like he’s in a time before industrialization; a departure from contemporary society that’s hard to achieve anywhere else. He’s not going to deny that a large part of it comes from the fact that despite there being a few people that smile wide at him, it’s otherwise an empty street.

Just because Nyhavn looks the same doesn’t mean that changes haven’t been made to the rest of the country in the world’s absence. For one, the deconstruction of the Danish border at the Øresund Bridge is made more than apparent. It was back when people weren’t thinking about questioning the government’s methods or who they would bring into office. It made headlines. No one is trying to hide it here either, not with how there are images of it on every second wall with bright yellow caution signs. 

It’s a different story being inside of the country and having to find the differences for yourself, as they're not broadcast for the world to know. Connor feels like he’s balancing on the tips of his toes, trying to see what they want him to and also find out what makes the capital city better resemble a ghost town at this time of day. Sure, there are people around but not of the same density as you would find in a city of a similar size back in Canada or even northern Europe. People move like they have somewhere to be. They exit one building and enter another. No one looks outside. They look like they fear it. 

All of it makes him wonder about population numbers. Back at home, they tried to estimate how many people would still be inside Denmark, how many babies were being born. It was hard to come to a conclusion when Denmark stopped releasing that information. Right now, it looks like even the most casual of homeowners got out with the rest of the foreigners when the going got tough. They leave behind the skeleton of a once-great city.

The rest of the Canadians are here too, closer to the water. Connor can hear the octave of Maria’s voice as she speaks, even as far away as he is. They’re a small comfort to have here; he likes knowing he’s with them but also has his space. Nowhere was that more evident than at breakfast that morning, when it took the whole of five minutes for Connor to realize he has almost nothing in common with them. He’d rather take his chances with Frederik, who oversees everything he does but will sometimes take them away from the main group and show him something not on the agenda, just for the sake of showing him. It dates back to their first conversation.

There’s one more thing Connor wants to see while he’s here, before they make preparations for tonight’s dinner. He makes his request when Frederik asks what he would like to see next, there with him during his face journey before the other man lands on something Connor could only describe as passive.

The Canadian embassy is not a quaint cottage on top of the rolling fields, with a copper fence and big rectangle windows. It’s in the middle of a busy street, in between two spaces up for lease, one that was clearly an H&M before; he can see the imprint of the letters on the banner top and the unused mannequin on the second floor.

The name-plate out front has a thin layer of dust on it. The Danish alphabet spells out what the place is. What it used to be. It’s only been a year but time draws the blinds on the place; it makes the walls wrinkle and the corridors dark.

He lets Frederik walk up to him, even moves a step to the side to help accommodate him in the small space out front. Connor couldn’t even guess what he’s thinking as they both stand there.

“We hope to have someone back here soon,” Frederik says.

Connor uses one hand to wipe the dust off. “What happened to the Canadian ambassador that was here?” He knows, but it doesn't hurt to ask.

“She stayed. All of the foreign capital ambassadors had the choice to either go home or stay here and she chose to stay. I believe she married one of the men in our party, but I can’t be sure. Too many names and faces to remember these days.”

“I would love to meet her.”

“I’m sure she feels the same. She was a nice lady.”

Connor has a lump in his throat, swallowing doesn’t make it budge. He’d love to stay there and try to pick at the meat of what happened. He could be here all day, if he was allowed.

“Come on, we should reconnect with the group,” Frederik says. It’s lip service, they both know that they should be going. He’s just saying it for the sake of saying it now.

A wrinkle between Frederik’s eyes is all that tells Connor that he is displeased. Whether it’s at him, the embassy, or his words, it will be another secret of Frederik’s that he can’t share.

Night falls on Denmark and police sirens continue to blare on in the background, unchanging. Connor has become accustomed to them, has habituated to the idea that being under the government’s eye is the way of things here. He doesn’t doubt there’s surveillance in his room, it makes him take more liberties when he’s getting dressed.

A chill blows in on the wind. Even the layers of his suit don’t shield him much. It’s Frederik who becomes the wall that stands between him and the gusts flying up from the river. Connor has no shame in ducking behind him as they walk the ice-slick roads into the hall where they will feast.

In the past, the royal family would use this building for charity balls and baptisms. It’s a work of art, a neo-classical style build that uses the canal around it like a moat. The interior decoration lives up to everything it’s supposed to be; Connor could spin in circles for hours trying to read all of the monograms.

As their coats are being taken from them at the front desk, Connor looks up at the man on the other side. He was able to notice him staring at him when they walked in. His blond eyebrows help draw Connor’s eyes to the segmentation of his face, how uncanny it is. He’s so pale, it’s almost frightening. 

While their guides are busy, Connor takes his chances and walks over. The man’s face doesn’t change but Connor can see the gears working in his head.

“Hi, do you speak English?” Connor asks.

The man nods and says nothing. He reaches for a small piece of folded paper to his side.

“Great. I was wondering--” he hears Frederik walk up behind him and curses him, “--if you had a pen, by chance.”

“What do you need a pen for, Connor?” Frederik says, low in his ear. It rumbles with the power behind his words. The man’s eyes widen.

“I realize I forgot mine back at the hotel. Max said we might have to sign something here.”

“I can give you a pen, come over here.”

It’s an exercise in trust between them, even for something as small as a pen. While Connor appreciates that Frederik is there, he was hoping to hear right from the horse’s mouth what this building was being used for now that a majority of parliament is out of office and the royal family has been moved to the countryside. The latter is especially concerning.

He gives the man a smile as they’re moved into the next room, nailed to the wall with the fire in the stranger’s eyes.

They introduce him around the table of people already there: Eller, Nielsen, Hansen, Densing, Glaas, and Kuch come up to him as soon as they hear his name. He can only be a neutral party for so long before he begins to get a bit casual. He wouldn’t call what he uses conversation starters but they get the fire going, almost too well. He’s on a first-name basis with most of them before they have even sat down. It’s by luck that he always has the right things to say. 

Eller likes him the most. There’s an art to reducing the circle of people around you from five to two and he’s good at it. It could be because he thinks Connor is easy. Call him an idiot, but Connor doesn’t think that is the case here. They’re closer in age than some so it makes casual conversation come easier. That being said, he’s not Connor’s friend. There’s a reason he’s here with these people: he’s had a hand in everything that’s happened up until this point.

Six of the politicians here can speak to them in English. The remaining two use a translator that they have with them. Her name is Ella and she wears a flower tucked behind her ear, an odd choice for fashion period, let alone in the month of November. She’s a micromanager, bringing them drinks as they talk to keep herself busy. The Canadian translator they have with them takes one look at her and scowls.

Connor caps how much alcohol he ingests at a glass, drinking water for the rest of the night. They’re served their main courses in a small room with a long table to the left side of the reception hall they were talking in. White curtains drape over every window. Hanging just above them is a gold chandelier that sways just enough to scare Connor into thinking it will plunge down onto the table.

It starts as a celebration of their differences and by seven it becomes an interrogation. Even as clear-headed as he is, Connor can’t say when it takes a turn for the worst. It’s the small, backhanded compliments that deflate the Danish party’s tires. His colleagues are diving right in, Maria at the helm of the ship; Connor is almost embarrassed on behalf of the Danes.

Maria’s long fingers cross over each other on her lap. “I was meaning to talk to you more about the Canadian citizens here in Denmark. As you probably know, a lot of them chose not to leave. We have some families back home concerned that they are stuck here now,” she explains, waiting for it to be translated for the older men.

There’s so much more to touch on than just that. It’s one thing to be inside a country with closed borders but another to have almost no means of communication with the outside world. It poses more than a few questions.

The Danes are not phased, looking as though they expected this question to come up early. One of the ladies at the table, Glaas, looks ready to answer but it’s one of the older men that take over. He looks at Ella, not Maria, as he speaks. 

Ella takes a second to process what he says and put the generative order of the sentence together. She then turns to Maria. 

“There may not be an official Canadian embassy here but concerned residents can speak to a government consular if they submit a report. We can’t make them do anything they don’t want to do; it’s up to them to take the initiative.” Her accent hugs her words.

Maria holds her chin up. The wrinkles around his eyes thin. “As you probably know, some Danish citizens have been seeking asylum in Sweden. There are very serious allegations of political unrest, the subjugation of the working class, and human rights violations. What do you have to say to that?”

Glaas gets her chance to speak. “There is one count of this happening and it was a husband and wife who received a misdemeanour for making criminal threats earlier that year. They were trying to get into Sweden to avoid serving their prison sentence. There was no way they would get in legally, so they made up a story to help their case.”

Connor jumps in after her. “I know there was a brief discussion about it earlier but I would like to get it in writing: is Denmark still a democracy?”

Glaas gives him a long look. “We were elected into power, if that’s what you’re asking. Not everything is going to measure up to your idea of democracy. Right now, it would be like if Canada needed to active the War Measures Act.” She looks around the table, her ponytail bouncing. “Your government has power over civil liberties--like the restriction of free speech--in a state of an emergency. The same is happening here, just under a different name. When the emergency is over, power will be reinstated back where it belongs.”

Connor sits on the answer they give him. He has to be careful with how many questions he asks. Being seen as presumptuous could make them back away. Besides, if it isn’t a democracy here, they’re not going to tell him that. Best to play the part. 

They sit in purgatory for hours, one side throwing an idea out and the other shooting it down. Back and forth, they trade blows that they disguise as ideas: ideas for a better future. No one wants to compromise but they do: on the littlest of things. Things that, in the long run, don’t matter. Here they do. Any victory is to be celebrated. 

Connor’s hands are busy helping his fork and knife slice open the breaded herring, so his brain begins to jot down ideas. He watches their hosts’ eye movements, whether their pointer finger twitches as they speak. All signs that betray their opinion on what they’re speaking about. When all’s said and done, he’s somehow the quietest person at the table that evening.

Three-quarters of the way into dinner, Eller calls for another round of drinks to be poured for them. Connor isn’t paying attention to him until one of the servers puts a glass down in front of him.

Connor’s about to ask why it’s there when Eller steps in from behind and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“You should drink, we’re hardly getting to know you here.”

It’s the overture to what he expected would be going on all night. Connor knew going in that he would have to drink more than normal. As Albert so plainly put it on the way there, it’s the fabric that holds Danish society together. Eller’s insistence is no surprise to him.

“I’ll stick to my water, thank you.”

Eller’s bottom lip twitches. “You haven’t even tried it yet. It’s distilled with amber, goes right down.”

Connor can’t say no to him a second time without looking rude. He lets them pour him a glass and takes a small sip. The spices pinprick the buds on his tongue: it’s exciting. Eller makes a pleasant sound and then goes back to his seat, across from him at the table.

They fill him with so much food that it’s hard to stand up from the table when talks are done. Right before they leave and their plates are cleared, the photographers snap a photo of the group from the head of the table. It will be added to the collection of images that go out that night to tie the general public over back at home, pretending to open doors for the Canadians to look through. It’s supposed to be a sign of progress. 

Connor’s optimistic only on the grounds of getting the Danish government to open up. Having them revert back to the economy and business model they were using before seems out of reach, at least for the time being. This, however, shows that they are at least considering it.

When they’re excused, he walks up to Frederik to give him back the pen he borrowed. Connor said he was only going to be using it to date the papers he had with him but he’s sure Frederik isn’t going to point fingers at him for taking a few notes when he got a spare minute to himself. The man in question is standing with Eller by the double doors out front. A pale glow outlines them.

They’re speaking in Danish to each other, quiet enough that Connor can’t hear. The skin of Frederik’s jaw is pulled taut. It will make Connor look conspicuous to just be standing there watching them but he has his reasons: he doesn’t want to rush them to finish if they see him walking up. He pretends to have problems getting his arm into his coat sleeve.

One of the buttons on his sleeve clinks with one on his breast. It’s enough of a chain reaction for the others to hear. Eller raises his head, connecting eyes with him. He beckons Connor over with two fingers.

Connor knocks his shoulders back. He pretends to just be seeing them now. “What are you guys talking about?”

“You tell me,” Eller says.

It’s impolite to be listening in to other people’s conversations, regardless of what country you’re in. Connor also knows that telling them he can understand some Danish might not be in his best interests here.

Connor tries to spin it as a joke. “I’m trying. Danish is hard to learn.”

Eller’s arms hang loose, his voice low when he speaks. “I have thirty years of experience. You get it, eventually.”

“I might need some help.”

“Well, if you end up coming back to Denmark sometime, I’d be happy to give you a few lessons. If Frederik allows me.”

Frederik grunts and says nothing more. 

Connor jumps back into the seat of power and takes Eller’s hand for one last shake. “Tonight was wonderful, Mr. Eller. My compliments to the cook.”

Eller shares a look with Frederik, a secret smile on his face. “Such a charmer isn’t he?” He turns back to him. “Connor, you can call me Lars.”

“Thank you, Lars. I uh, enjoyed what you poured me.”

“The Akvavit? I knew you would. While you’re here, we need to get you to try a few more things, lighten up that face of yours.”

“I’m not much of a drinker.”

“You sound like my cousin. Even he drinks on nights like these, it’s the only way to keep yourself warm.” 

Frederik hums. “Speaking of which, we should be going before the roads get too dangerous. You know how it is at this time of night.”

Lars’ eyes move to the side. “Yeah, you’re right. You two go on ahead, I’ll be a second.”

Connor’s eyes follow him to the front desk where the man from before stands firm. Lars is short of words talking to him, eyes down at the ground as he moves something around in his back pocket. The man moves slowly, taking the garment off of the hook with care.

He decides it’s now or never; if he doesn’t ask now he’ll forget to later. “Is the man behind the desk okay?”

Frederik looks up and squints. “He’s fine, why?”

“Earlier when I was asking about the pen, he looked so scared.”

“He might be from up north. Up there, they’re not as used to foreigners.”

“He wouldn’t speak to me.”

“He could have been asked not to, that’s normal protocol here for all visitors. He wasn’t trying to be rude, if that’s the problem.” 

It must be a two-way street: them being told not to talk to citizens and the citizens being told not to talk to them. He could see why having Frederik walk up to them like he did back there would scare the man. The last thing you want to do at a time like this is step out of line. It could also have just been the eyebrows.

“It’s not but thank you.”

The doors open for them, sprinkles of snow flying in on the wind. The cars are outside waiting for them in a single file. There are people everywhere, in black uniform and playing checkers with the weather. Connor has to navigate around them to get to their vehicle, Frederik and Lars in tow. 

“Thanks again,” Connor says as he steps inside.

Lars nods his head. “It’s our pleasure. Get home safe now.”

Before Frederik bends over to join him, Lars thumps him on the chest. _“I like him,”_ he says in Danish.

Connor doesn’t need a translator to understand that. He smiles into the collar of his button-up shirt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no warnings for this chapter but stay tuned.


	3. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings will now be added in the end notes if they apply!

One of the few times that they’re scheduled to leave Copenhagen is when they’re visiting the city of Odense, the third-largest in Denmark. A many number of industries work there: grocery, service, manufacturing and the like. Being an industrial and commercial home, the city’s congress centre is one of the many places they have to visit when they’re talking trade. 

It’s a two-hour drive there using the e-road network that once connected Denmark to Sweden using the Øresund Bridge. Connor is no stranger to highways, even ones that stand above the ocean, but the e20 road is a first for him: for one reason only.

Every twenty minutes or so, what looks like the remains of an electronic toll gate will slow the car to a stop. There, armed guards stand at the boom barrier. They look into the car, check and stamp their passports, and send them on their way without saying a word. It happens so many times that the page for stamps in Connor’s diplomat passport has no more space left.

Each stamp has with it the name of the gate, the date, and the time they passed through, down to the second. He doesn’t even want to imagine what a commuter’s papers would look like if this is what’s required for a single day of work. That being said, the highway looks to be out of service for the general population as not a single car can be seen with them on the road that morning.

Two hours and twenty-five minutes into the drive and Connor is more than relieved to find they’re back on land and in between the rows of bare black trees. The e20 highway is not the only bridge they have to cross, but the ones that connect them to Odense are suspension bridges that hang in between fjords. No government officials work here, the sound of sirens replaced by the roll of the tidal current churning underneath them. From there, they enter one of many small towns that guide them deeper into the island of Funen.

There’s a lot of history in Odense, so much that to go over it would require he go back to the books and study. He’s happy that he’s not in the middle seat this time so that he can better appreciate it. Where they’re meeting is only about twenty minutes out from the city so he can still get a good look at the cream-coloured buses and gallery shops that hide inside them the workings of everyday life. They call out to him, asking that he come and explore them.

Unfortunately, it will have to wait. They have a long day ahead of them, with about ten different companies to talk to about expansion and plans for how Denmark is expected to compete with its Scandinavian neighbours after its new restrictions on free trade. Canada is not Denmark’s primary trading partner, not even close, but they’re hoping to tease out of them some hope for the future. The government’s decision to water down the industrial subsides Denmark was receiving as financial aid from Germany only hurt their economic model. If only Denmark calmed down, maybe opened up their borders again, they could convince the country to go back to their primary exports of pork and machinery. That’s what’s on the line here.

At noon, the consular and political ambassadors, who have less of a hand in trade talks and are there mainly for support, are given a short break. They’re served a moderate-sized lunch in a small room with only a single square window high up for company. A weak strand of light uses it to enter. It’s pale-gray and kisses the bridge of Connor’s nose. An entourage of dust particles uses it as a spotlight to dance in.

The three other Canadians move into the corner to avoid having to put up with the sun on their backs but Connor stays. A few birds are perching on the tree outside. Watching them gives him something else to do while he’s here.

They’re not alone for very long; at about a quarter to twelve, some of the Danes come in and join them, a majority of whom sit down near the bigger group of Canadians and shut them up fast. As always, Frederik sits with him. It’s become the instruction manual to their relationship that they should always be in close proximity.

Frederik swallows a bite of his food and gives Connor a look. There’s no way he doesn’t notice that Connor’s plate is full after almost half an hour of being there.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Bored,” Connor says back.

“You looked it in there.” 

Connor doesn’t manage the capacity to be embarrassed. The last thing he’s going to do here is lie to him.

When he takes too long to respond, Frederik continues. “If it was up to us, you wouldn’t even be here.”

It’s enough of a push he needs for Connor to get what’s inside of his chest out. “It’s nice being here and all but I had hoped to see more of the country. The landmarks, the culture, you know.”

Frederik looks at him like a cat who’s found himself a new toy: eyes wide, head to the side. He leans in close, reserving his words only for Connor’s ears.

“I could take you somewhere, if you wanted to,” he proposes. “We have forty-five minutes.”

“Where would we go?”

He watches the idea grow in Frederik’s head from the other side of his eyes. It’s normally very hard to figure out what Frederik’s feelings are on a subject using his facial expressions alone. Not now. His excitement is clear.

“You’ll see,” he says as he helps Connor up from the table. “I promise you’ll like it.”

Connor looks over his shoulder at the door. “But the meeting--”

“We’ll be back in time. I can see your eyes rolling into the back of your head in there.”

Connor did have trouble keeping his eyes open but it was more because of the pounding in his head than his own boredom. Today has given him a lot to think about. 

“I uh,” he looks at the Canadians, “have to check with them. I’ll just be a second.”

He knows they’re watching him even before he walks over. They hold their words back until he’s close enough for them to whisper.

Max oversees ninety percent of what’s going on with the Canadians. As far as having to check in with someone before he goes somewhere, he’s it. He doesn’t look very happy with Connor. 

“What are you doing, Connor?” he says.

“What you asked me to: I’m going to spend some time on the outside.”

Max’s lips are thin and form a tight seal. He looks Connor up and down, the pale skin around his mouth creased.

Finally, he speaks. “You can’t go alone.”

“I don’t plan to; why do you think I’m here?”

“You better come back safe and on time,” he says. “I don’t want to have to be the one to send a message to parliament today.”

“I will, I promise. If I don’t, well, you get the story you’re looking for.”

Max coughs into his handkerchief to cover Connor’s last words. “Don’t speak like that. We’ll talk about this later.”

Connor rolls his tongue in his mouth. “Got’cha.”

They send Robert with him which, as far as fronts go, is pretty good. Connor only just learned the man’s name yesterday--he, for some reason, thought it was Ronald--but they’ve been together for enough car rides for him to know he takes matters very seriously. His work there is something akin to what a journalist would do, there to make sure everything gets documented with his camera. While the others may not share Connor’s enthusiasm, Robert has the motivation to see as much as he can, which makes him a great partner to have. 

Frederik doesn’t look surprised that he’s bringing someone with him but does make them sit on either side of him in the car. He doesn’t say where they’re going until they’re already at the entrance, when they give them brochures once designed to be in the hands of tourists. Connor’s paper is dog-eared and worn, with a rip down the side. It’s the pictures, not the text, that clue him into the fact they’re at Egeskov Castle.

Considered one of the most well-preserved castles in all of history, Egeskov had many people in Europe worried when Denmark closed up. It’s good to see it again, looking the same as it did in the promotional material chewed up and spat onto the internet years ago. The change in seasons around it is all that’s different; the water nearby has a thin layer of ice on top that the touch of a foot could punch a hole through. 

He turns to Frederik. “Are we going inside?”

“Yes. The castle closes in the winter so you won’t see any others inside. I hope you don’t mind.”

He speaks like it’s a detriment and not a treat that they’re here alone. Although there are some police stationed nearby, they not in the quantity of where they would be found at the hotel or the board room meetings. It feels very private.

“No, not at all. Where do we begin?”

“That’s up to you. You’re in charge for the next,” he looks at his watch, “twenty minutes or so.”

Something about being alone makes everything more worthwhile. He looks at what he thinks will be of interest to him and a lot of it is the decor: the wide selection of Chippendale furniture and old family porcelain vases that add colour to the rooms. 

Connor works to keep his fingers to himself. “Whenever I walk in places like this, I think to myself how people lived here. It doesn’t feel like it when you’re walking through,” he says.

He speaks only to Frederik. Robert is nearby, looking at the world-renowned art and trying to find imperfections or change. He’s not paying any attention to them.

Frederik agrees with him. “It’s a beautiful castle.” 

“The moat has to be my favourite part of it.”

“It’s the only entrance. If you didn’t like someone you could just pull the drawbridge up and there would be no way of them finding a way in. The walls,” Frederik knocks on them with the back of his hand, “are also thick. Thicker on the outside.”

“The castle was built for defence purposes, right?”

“Yes. At the beginning of the Protestant Reformation. This castle used to protect the people that built it. Now, we have to protect the castle and our history along with it. I have no doubt that the extremist groups would love to see it fall.” 

The darkness in Frederik’s eyes swallows his pupils. A year alone, with no outside opinions, has made him and the other people who share his opinions rot. Like the old sandwich in a plastic bag science project, sooner or later the infection grows inside, even try to protect yourself. There’s no doubt that the hatred they have for their opposition is just as strong, if not stronger than it was the day the attacks took place.

Connor has two options here: feed into it or back out. If he had his group he might give it a shot.

He plays it safe, instead. “If they tried to, it would be a loss for everyone.”

Frederik looks satisfied with his answer. “It would. Those people, they have no sympathy for anyone. How someone could go and kill _children,_ it’s beyond even me. If this castle and the grounds around it have taught us anything, it’s that we can’t ignore the red flags. You have to have your defences up before they storm the city, that’s just how it works.”

Frederik has a way of speaking to history that makes him sound more like a librarian than a politician. The last time Connor described someone like that, the person he was speaking to took it to insult. The opposite was intended. Politicians speak to history like it’s supposed to justify what they do and yes, some of it pervades Frederik’s words. More than that though, is a deep appreciation for what was. It stops him from looking at the past as being better, just something to be used to better one’s self. In that way, Connor has a lot of respect for him. In regards to what he’s talking about, that does not apply.

They have to get going soon or they’re going to be late for the second round of talks, as Robert brings to their attention. Frederik doesn’t look too happy about it. They make their way to the entrance where Robert is waiting for them, walking slower than normal.

“As I said before, you weren’t supposed to attend that meeting in the first place, we wanted to show you more of our country before you got to business,” Frederik explains. Connor is listening to him over the sound of his coat zipping up.

“Why’s that?”

“How can you speak with us if you do not know what you’re talking about? For you, it was like asking a chicken farmer to milk cows. You’re political, not trade.”

He shrugs. “It was useful experience either way.”

“You talk about that a lot: experience. How long have you been working for Canada?”

“I have done work in Ukraine and Norway for the last three years. I’m not inexperienced but this whole,” he waves his hand, “ _situation_ is new for all of us.”

“I understand.”

“They were originally going to send someone with a better understanding of the Danish language--I was actually learning Swedish--but because I was involved in researching the February attacks they assumed I would be a better fit.”

“I’m already so fond of you,” Frederik says with a straight face. Connor can’t tell if he actually enjoys his company or if he’s just saying something generic to make up for the fact Connor’s word drop leaves but a few options of something to say back.

Connor tells it as it is. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

Robert joins them at the visitor check-in, where no one but the guestbook sits. The doors clamp shut behind them and hide their pearl as they leave.

Frederik is loosening his collar with one hand. “I doubt our groups will come to an agreement today,” he says as they’re getting ready to go. It gets him a crude looks from Robert.

“You don’t know that,” Connor says. He has to pull his eyes away from Frederik for a second to fix his seatbelt, which is locked and won’t pull.

Frederik waits for a second. “It’s contingent on a lot of things that I don’t think we will find even ground on. That in mind, if you want to go somewhere else, I’d be happy to take you.

In what was once a void there’s now his reflection. Connor can see himself looking back in his eyes. He swallows.

“I think we should go back.”

Frederik breaks eye contact. “Of course.”

Later in the talks, he’ll come close to complaining about the hunger in his belly but on second thought, will hold his tongue. Instead, he will look over the heads of the industry heads and see Frederik sitting in the back, watching him with no expression on his face. 

That concludes their day in Odense, then it’s back to the tables in Copenhagen for a political banquet. It’s designed to have them interacting with the common populous on a level that’s _not_ paper correspondence. No one is looking forward to it after the long day they’ve had but know it would look bad on them if no one showed up. For a second, Connor thinks they’re going to draw straws. It never ends up happening, even if Max threatens to put him out there for an hour or two extra to make up for leaving them behind. 

Connor gets back to Copenhagen with six new stamps in his passport and a headache.

Everyone at the banquet is dressed to the nines. The proceedings are simple and straightforward: they are there to celebrate the entrepreneurial successes in the country. Had it not been for their secondary exports, Denmark would be in serious financial trouble. Financing the military does not come cheap, after all. It’s why the Canadians think there must be some underground they’re using to support themselves with. 

War inside the border or not, the implication of what they’re doing is clear: the guns are being turned on their own citizens. It’s not something Connor would ever say out loud to them, just what he keeps in the back of his head when he’s working. It gets confusing when he’s surrounded by like-minded people who do everything in their power to make him feel comfortable. The brain isn’t designed to also think of them as potential accessories to murder. It might just be the reason why his head is killing him right now.

No one here wants to talk about trade, instead, they want to play dress-up. They want to pull him aside and talk about what’s made them successful. Even if they did want to clue them in to what’s happening behind the curtains, the politicians don’t leave the Canadians’ sides. It’s not only claustrophobic but actively impedes on their ability to investigate.

Connor runs out of things to say to them very early on. At big socials like this, alcohol is flowing. Not only does he have to dodge certain conversation topics but now that too. It’s not that he doesn’t think he can handle a drink or two, it’s that he’s not going to make himself vulnerable in front of people who are talking about eugenics testing.

Later in the evening, they bring them to a large group of people on the west side of the banquet hall. For what feels like the first time during their visit, Connor can see children. Lots of them. So many that he thinks his eyes are deceiving him. They all gather around an older man and women, looking to be in their early forties. 

Lars, who’s making his first appearance of the day, introduces them. “We want you to meet the Duus family. They were our sponsors, back when we first took government.”

The bald man, the father so it seems, greets Connor with a handshake and the bow of his head. “Hello,” he says, plainly. “It is nice to see you.” His pronunciation could use some work, he must be an early speaker.

Connor isn’t going to try and communicate with him beyond the basics; he knows better than anyone how hard it is to talk to people when you’re not familiar with the language. 

“A pleasure,” is all he says.

Frederik steps into the conversation, one hand already holding a drink. “They embody the traits we’d like to see in future families.”

What can Connor say to that? “There certainly are a _lot_ of children,” comes out of his mouth. 

They all stand like soldiers beside their mother, with only the younger toddlers stepping out of line. Connor can see her mouthing things to them out of the corner of his eye. Clearly, know better than to test her discipline.

They’re not even his own and yet, Frederik looks so proud of them. “We appreciate their values.”

Connor feels like it’s the right time to ask: “is your family very big?”

“Somewhat. I have three siblings and many more uncles and aunts.”

“No children?”

“Not until I’m married.” His expression is sombre. “I want at least four though. Children, that is.”

“Four’s a good number.” It’s a big number, Connor can’t imagine sending that many kids to college on his salary. It’s not his place to judge, however.

“What about you?” Frederik turns the question on him. “What kind of family do you want?”

“To be honest, I don’t see a lot of room in my life for a family.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I travel from embassy to embassy on business. I could be stationed somewhere. It’s not fair to whoever I meet that I drag them along, and I have no intention of leaving my career behind.”

“But you’re so young and...what's the word...fruitful, most people your age would be all for it.”

Connor laughs, awkwardly. “Yeah, I guess. It’s just not for me.”

Frederik looks a bit down at that, like he thinks Connor is making a mistake. He says nothing though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a brief mention of political unrest and the harming of danish citizens. none of this is seen and everything is implied  
> there's also a mention of children dying because of terrorist-related bombings. there will come a better explanation for this later. it's in passing mention


	4. Thursday

In between photo shoots at historic landmarks and political conferences with so many different opinions coming into play it’s become a game of _Pong_ , there’s the rare occasion where they are left alone to their own devices. That wording, of course, is more generous than what actually happens: what it means to say is there’s no schedule. If they so choose, the diplomats can go within the borders of what’s around them, accompanied by an approved member of staff.

Connor, more than anything, wants to use the privilege to explore the Denmark that’s trying so hard to live up to expectations. He’s been trying to take a pulse of what’s happening around them, something that’s hard to do when you can’t verify any of your findings. It’s clear that the country is in a stage of transformation and with it comes obvious growing pains; it’s making people act in a way he’s not familiar with. The thing is, it’s easy to say that. It’s harder to find something to take home with you. For all intents and purposes, this visit is a test--a fitness to stand trial kind of test--where the answer he comes to will help decide if Canada does business with them in the future.

All he can say is, he’s happy he doesn’t have a job like Maria’s. He hears her step out of her room at half-past twelve at night to get ice chips. No one will tell her what she needs to know: where the Canadians are. No one is making her the exception. She has to dig with her own two hands for information.

It’s all because she doesn’t have as good a rapport with the Danes as he does, though, in mind of what happened yesterday, that’s not something he’s going to be bragging about. Max has already made good on his promise to have a word with Connor and found him at last night’s banquet during a pause in the celebrations. What they talked about was nothing Connor didn’t already know, with the exception of one thing.

“You need to be careful around Andersen,” Max said to him.

It took him a second to remember that Andersen is Frederik's last name. “I know. I think they have one person assigned to each of us.” 

“Oh, they do. They’re trying to build a profile on you. It’s one of those cases where it’s a fine line. Robert mentioned that Andersen was opening up to you about the February bombings.”

“Yes, he was. A bit.”

“Something like that could be useful. God knows when the actual truth will come out. That being said, keep your distance. I don’t want him getting any ideas.”

“Do I avoid him?”

Max’s teeth rested on his tongue. “I don’t think that will be possible. Just err on the side of caution for the time being.” He added scalloped potatoes to his plate and left Connor standing there by himself. That was the end of that.

His words followed Connor into today. Somehow, there’s a sense that he’s already too late, that the players have chosen the pieces they need to play their game. He tries not to think too hard about it at eight in the morning.

Frederik might be the first person that comes to mind when he thinks about going outside with an escort but he’s not who Connor ends up going with. That honour would go to one of the other diplomats, Frans. Their first informal introduction was at the banquet when Frederik had to step out to relieve himself. They talked about the preservation of native species. It’s how he found out the other man was so deep into geography.

Usually, at the back of the group, Frans doesn’t draw that much attention to himself. He’s got a kicked puppy look going for him, with thick brown hair that Connor can identify from the other side of the room. He looks like a safe bet; he’s not someone too high up on the political ladder. 

In the morning, they sit together at breakfast: Connor uses Frans’ love for field research to talk about them going out of town to see the sights as Frans spreads jam over a white roll. He incorporates everything he knows the other man will love using last night’s conversation as a template. Call it working on him all you will, it’s the type of reinforcement you don’t cut corners on. The better Frans likes him, the better the chances are that they will go somewhere with this. Connor likes to think of it as a success when the other man is smiling by the end.

They arrange to take him out in half an hour, giving Connor plenty of time to get ready. He finally gets to put something on his feet that aren’t dress shoes, going for good-looking but not necessarily formal clothing. His undergarments involve sleeved shirts and leggings designed to keep him warm. Everything points to him going outside for the day, or at least until lunch when he has one thing to do for diplomacy work. He’s confident that he has all of his bases covered.

But when he walks down to the lobby, he doesn’t see the brown hair and beard that should belong to Frans. It’s Frederik standing by the doors, waiting for him. No one else is in sight.

“Good morning,” he says to Connor. “Are you ready to go?”

Connor’s words have dried up. “What--where’s Frans?”

“He had other matters to attend to. He asked if I would cover for him.”

Connor pushes his hair back with his right hand. “Oh. I can wait until he comes back, it’s no big deal.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, come on.” He walks up closer to Connor, holding a hand out. He has big, black gloves on. “After this I can drive you to the conference centre for your phone call.”

Max was right. This is going to be harder than simply trying to walk around Frederik. It seems that even when Connor is trying to get away, he manages to step on the other man’s toes. 

A big part of Connor is at war with the thoughts going through his head. He likes Frederik and enjoys his company. In another life, they would be good friends. He thought, because Frederik’s family comes from public relations, that he had a smaller part to play in what’s happening around them. Whether that’s true or not, Connor can only speculate. One thing’s for sure, he’s not going out into the country today. 

It would look suspicious for him to walk away from Frederik now. He has no choice but to go out on a brief walk and try not to think about who went behind his back, if it was Frans or someone else that overheard him talking. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility, considering how many people are walking in and out of the hotel on a daily basis, about half of them armed.

The start on the main road but walk in the opposite direction of the city, down south. Frederik doesn’t say where they’re going and Connor doesn’t ask. For the most part, he’s trying to keep up with Frederik, who takes such big steps that Connor has to quicken his pace. There’s no time to take in his surroundings. His heart is pumping blood.

When he was planning the morning out, Connor wanted to move at his own pace and really look into why they are so few people out and about on a weekday. He now has the overwhelming urge to move as fast as possible. He’s not paying attention when they’re walking into an old market’s gravel parking lot. He trips on the curb. 

A swoop of air travels in and out of his lungs, a large part of it surprise. Frederik is there to grab him before he falls, both of his arms around Connor’s waist, holding onto him. It tears him in two all over again. It’s all instinctual; a part of him samples this kindness and makes it even harder to put himself back together. It’s hard to force an opinion on Frederik when everything he’s seeing points in the opposite direction. There’s no suspension of disbelief here.

At the same time, he gets a glimpse at something that he can’t look away from, school houses with big metal gates out front, three times his height. Guards stand on the inside looking out. The juxtaposition of them in front of colourful murals of children playing with sailboats painted on the school’s brick walls makes Connor more than uncomfortable. These children will be the front lines of an entirely new country, if nothing changes soon. For now, this is normal life. 

Frederik sees him looking and pushes him on. They come to a recreational park a minute or two down the road. There’s a giant rink with a split down the middle, separating leisure from hockey. No skaters are in sight, even though the door to the ice sits open. It might have been used by the school, at one point. Now, it’s desolate.

The ice is in a state of disrepair and will need to be resurfaced. It wouldn’t stop a dedicated skater if they wanted to play, however. Connor gets as close as he can to it without going over the boards. It looks like the wind flipped the latch for the door, which explains why it looks like someone has been here.

Connor pulls his scarf down from his mouth so he can speak clearly. “Do people still ice skate around here?”

“What do you mean, ‘do people still’?” Frederik asks.

He scrambles to fix his wording. “I mean, I was just curious if there were still hockey leagues operating here.”

“We have a few in-house leagues, yes. Why do you ask?”

“I’m just a big hockey fan. I actually played hockey in the minor leagues for a few years before I broke my ankle and had to retire.”

To his surprise, Frederik goes along with it. “My dad played. I guess I should say I did too. Probably would have made a career out of it if my parents didn’t insist I go to school.”

With his size, Connor could easily see it happening. “We should play a game against each other,” he says, dry.

Frederik blows air out of his nostrils. “I play in net, so it won’t work out like how you’re envisioning.”

He doesn’t say anything more than that, but Connor can see that interspersed in his response is a genuine liking of the ice and the world that revolves around it. It’s the look of someone who knows they can’t go back but wants it so bad that their longing reanimates into how they hold themselves. 

Connor has been where he is, had to work out life after expecting to make it big. The thing about adult life is that so few decisions are validated in the end. It leaves you wondering what if. Standing here with Frederik, they have that in common. He doesn’t need to say anything for Frederik to help understand. 

They end their visit early when Connor runs out of things to say and Frederik runs out of things to show him. They walk back to the hotel to pick up Connor’s books and then go for an early lunch at one of the restaurants that operate by the conference centre Connor will be in. No one is dining at the same time as them; the space is void of people besides for the two ladies that take their orders. Connor thought he would have to be a millionaire before he was able to have a whole restaurant to himself like this.

He’s too nervous to do anything more than pick at the plates of food in front of him as he reviews his notes. Frederik tries his best to be helpful but Connor keeps his cards close to his chest on this one. The only words they share are descriptors of the food, pushing plates that they enjoy to the other so he can try. A lot of the spread is comfort food, with steaming vegetables and meat that he cuts with a knife and fork.

At a quarter to twelve, Frederik pays for their meal and they go their own ways. He makes a big deal out of wishing him luck and saying goodbye but Connor knows the truth by now, knows that they won’t be separated for long. Depending on who you ask, they either have great magnetism or the government's orders to be together. Both explain why Frederik is stapled to his side. It's something he has to take into mind when he's walking into the centre, about to be asked his opinion of Denmark by over a dozen people with years of experience on him. 

Today will be one of the few times they have verbal contact with the Canadian government. In theory, they always do but more for emergencies than anything else. The last thing you want to do in a foreign country is have security breaches because you’re using their towers and servers, so they keep the information going out to a minimum.

Truth is, Denmark has nothing to worry about, yet. He sees the people in the room with him relax when he reports no concerns, but they should know as well as he does that it’s by no means a permanent statement. That doesn’t mean he’s short on things to say, just that most of his sentences are open-ended. His immediate superior, who he speaks the most to, seems to realize that Connor not fleshing out his observations means they still have more work to do. Canada won’t ally themselves with a country that’s under fire for detentions without trial, arbitrary arrests, and abductions run rampant. They need conclusive evidence before they can draw any conclusions. So, they spend most of the meeting chasing their own tail. 

Over the course of the hour he’s on the line, most of the words he has down on paper are tossed out in the air. The only ones he leaves out are, of course, negative. Those are the ones they will go over in great detail when he gets home. Most of them are character observations from the people around them, people that would not be so kind as to trust him again once they hear what he has to say.

All things considered, it’s at least nice to unload his binder for once. The thing was becoming cumbersome to carry thanks to all the papers he was keeping track of. He tucks it under one arm when he’s leaving, the edge sticking into his armpit.

Frederik is in the lobby when Connor gets out, talking to Nikolaj in the lobby. He has a styrofoam cup of hot liquid in his right hand and the shoulder strap of his bag in his right. Nikolaj is dressed in a suit, having made a short cameo in the operations upstairs to report statistics.

Connor remembers Nikolaj from their first day there; he’s supposed to be on the team working with them to authorize trade overseas. It’s not in his line of work, so he hasn’t seen him around as often as someone else might. Regardless, Nikolaj is courteous when he walks over.

“Connor, Nikolaj has offered to drive us back. It appears we’re both going the same way,” Frederik says. 

“That’s very kind of you Nikolaj, thank you.”

Nikolaj smiles. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to spend some time together. Frederik has told us a lot about you.”

“Us?”

“The other people on my council.”

“You’re very popular, Connor,” Frederik says, almost without moving his mouth. If it’s supposed to be reassuring, it fails. Connor’s already hypersensitive to how many people know his name here. 

He would ask why Nikolaj is behind the wheel and not inside with the other diplomats both domestic and international but he feels like it would be a waste of breath. The spontaneous decision to move Connor around to so many places at once can’t be a coincidence by this point. 

On the other hand, Nikolaj comes with his own sense of authenticity. He’s like Frans. Connor would bet that if Frederik was driving and Nikolaj was a passenger, he would sit up in the front, not in the back with him. It amuses him that he only has that visual to explain to himself what feels so wrong about this situation. With Frederik, he feels like he’s in a control group doing an experiment. 

Along the way, he notices Copenhagen is not growing bigger, but smaller. He doesn’t recognize any of the roads. More people are outside but walk in single file. It’s all very foreign.

“Where are we going?” he asks in a small voice. No one answers him.

Connor has to stop looking out of the window on account of how it makes his stomach clench. He feels like a man on death row. The binder in his hands, Denmark’s hopes for the future, feels like it’s gained twenty pounds.

Eventually, the car stops. Where they are, Connor has no idea. He’s so far removed from his element that he’s basically out of the planet’s orbit.

The car is pulled to the side of the street in front of a blue-gray townhouse. It has two stories and big square windows he can look into from the car. There is also a large roof terrace and a garage.

“Where are we?” he asks again.

Frederik picks up his messenger bag. “My house. I was told you wanted to look around.”

Connor is made aware all at once of everything he’s said, searching his memory bank for anything he could have dropped into conversation that served to convince Frederik this is a good idea.

He goes for the considerate approach. “That’s very kind of you but I need to go back.”

“No you don’t,” Frederik stops him.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Good idea or not, the vehicle’s engine doesn’t start. He has no way of getting in contact with someone who would be able to help him. The only place he can go is inside. That’s a _terrifying_ thought. 

Frederik ducks out of the car without saying a word, leaving both of his companions behind. As much as Connor hopes that with him out of the vehicle it means he can go back on his own, it becomes apparent that it’s not the case.

Nikolaj looks at him using his rear-view mirrors. “He’s not going to let you go until you get out.”

“You can’t drive me back?”

“He’s my superior. I’m sorry.”

“But why am I here? Did I do something wrong?”

Nikolaj’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Maybe you just did something too well.”

“This can’t be okay. No one sent me here, right?”

“No one sent you, but you’re supposed to be here. That’s all I can say.” Nikolaj’s head turns down. It doesn’t look like he’s going to answer any more questions. 

Does he get out of the car or be dragged? He doesn’t want to find out. If being cooperative could earn him good favour than it’s better than trying to make a statement. 

He thanks Nikolaj as he walks out, closing the metal gate behind him, a thin barrier keeping the house separate from the others on the street. Frederik waits for him at the door, his lips thin. 

For only having one person living in it, the house is huge. It has more than a few bedrooms to its name. Everything about it is grand. The only problem is that there’s no one there to live in it. It’s missing the fundamental part of what makes a house a home. The word that comes to mind when he sees it would be sterile.

Frederik must see how it puts a damper on the mood he’s trying to set. “I bought it for when my family visits: they’re over on the mainland, about three hours away. When they’re not here it’s different.”

“You look like you could use the company,” Connor says, his attention somewhere else. The house feels lived in, but not by Frederik. He can hear the echoes of domestic life embedded in the drywall. 

“What would you say to some home movies?”

Connor breaks out of his trance. “What?”

“You asked if we skate, so I thought I would show you.”

Connor shouldn’t. Nikolaj may be gone but he has his bets on Frederik owning a car of his own; he should demand to be driven back to the hotel. He should scream. For once, he should put up a fight, not just play dead.

When he doesn’t say anything, he has to ask himself why. Is it because he wants to see where this goes or is it because he’s afraid? It could be that he understands it’s futile to make demands when you’re on the short end of the stick, at least on a subconscious level. He doesn’t want to give himself the credit right now though. He leaves his binder by the lump of things close to the door, covering it with his jacket.

Meanwhile, Frederik pops in an old VHS tape that shows his father at a home game in the early 2000s. The resemblance he has to Frederik easy to pull apart. They share the same nose. Playing the position in net does not take away from the fact that his father’s skating could only be described as smooth as the motion of a hot knife cutting through butter. It’s pleasing to look at. It makes him wonder what Frederik would look like on the ice, but he doesn’t ask to see it.

Frederik must have watched this tape several times over. He knows the outcome. He knows when the bad plays are coming up and tries to salvage it as he explains to Connor what’s going on. A bad giveaway or goal is objective, not subjective, but Frederik is good at explaining away why it was something out of their control. It’s not like Connor’s going to come back and correct him on why his father is not playing up to gold star standards.

They both get tired before the game ends. Their glasses are empty and their eyes are heavy when Frederik reaches for the remote to turn the television off. He refills both of their glasses for them. This time, it’s a thick cherry wine, grown in Lolland, on one of Denmark’s islands. It slugs down the back of Connor’s throat and sits in his stomach like jelly. He can feel it slosh around when he moves.

When Frederik starts talking, Connor has to force himself to listen. “My father was devastated when he learned we could no longer play Sweden or Norway in hockey. He thought I was ruining this country. My uh, little brother wanted to play goalie too. He wouldn’t speak to me for days when he heard.”

Connor swirls what’s left in his glass. The bottom half is stained pink. “That must have been hard.”

“They would go on to support me of course but my parents grew up in a different world. Like anyone their age, they fight against change. It was only after the attacks on government that they came around.”

Connor leans back on the couch. There comes the pleasure from stretching, like giving up the slack in a rubber band. “I hear you say that all the time. Attacks. No one seems to like talking about it.”

“That’s because misinformation runs unchecked here.”

“So what happened, if you don’t mind me asking.”

Frederik pours himself more wine. Connor holds out his glass without asking, knowing it was only a matter of time before he asked him. Social customs aside, it’s a good tasting drink. 

“We had people thinking our kindness was being taken advantage of in the immigration office. They wanted a total government reform. It was our responsibility to not let that happen.”

“The ‘government reform’, that had to do with the string of bombings?”

“Yes. It was far-right politics at its very worst. They started in the government quarter and then moved to the bridges and bombed us there. They wanted to stop people from entering the country.”

Connor relaxes his eyebrows. “So you closed the borders.”

“We had to. Do you know how many people they killed, how many families around the country that they affected? They have the blood of our children on their hands. If not for us, they would get away with it. Now, they have nowhere to hide.” 

Frederik speaks the cry of a nation into being. Even with the security they have in place, Connor can sense desperation. Frederik, and what he can only assume are the others too, want to tell their story. Canada is supposed to be the platform they will stand on, if all goes to plan.

“You make it sound very extreme,” Connor says as he mouths the rim of his glass. 

“They were getting outside help, so we did what was best and decided it would be best to keep them contained here.”

“Even you have to admit that closing in on yourselves looks very suspicious. Your own neighbours didn’t get an explanation.”

“Sure, but they are the ones selling our groups their weapons and equipment. We have no obligation to be entered in the world market. It’s our cross to bear.” 

Frederik’s mouth could tie cherry stems if he so wanted. Connor is running out of things to say to him.

“What about human rights groups lobbying that people cannot leave the country of their own free will?”

“Of course they can. they just need to go through more screenings first. As for sports leagues and other competitive teams, again we have no obligation to participate in international games. If they have a problem with that, they’re free to leave. I won’t say the emigration process isn’t lengthy but if you truly want to go, there is nothing legally that we can do to stop you, unless that is you have done or said something that would make keeping you here in Denmark a necessity.”

“I see.”

“I don’t want to bore you with talk about the proceedings. I’m sorry if I ran my mouth there.”

Being here alone is not made any less scary by Frederik opening his mouth about problems but it does make the night digestible. At least Connor will have something to show for himself tomorrow.

“It’s fine. I have all the answers I need.”

The night goes on even without the same liquid consistency they had earlier. Frederik keeps speaking to him, getting closer. Connor feels like he’s going crazy. 

“You look like you’re about to be sick,” Frederik says. He’s responding to the fact that Connor has his head between his knees.

When Frederik’s been drinking, his whole body droops like a leaf with too much water on it. Connor would think from that description that he looks soft but the opposite is true. Debauched is the word for it, skin shiny with sweat that plasters his hair to his forehead.

“It’s just getting to me,” he says. He purposefully leaves it vague. 

“The drinks or being here?”

“I can’t--I can’t like you,” he gets out. His teeth bite down to try and take the words back but it’s too late. 

“Is that what they told you?”

Connor needs to put on the breaks. If he could find a grip on what he was saying it might help, but right now it feels like every muscle in his body has the consistency of gelatine.

“I just--“

“You’re very reluctant to speak your mind.”

Connor laughs to himself, making a bit of a mockery over what Frederik’s saying to him. “What do you want me to say? This isn’t a speak your mind session.”

“I want you to tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I shouldn’t be here and you know that. Why did you bring me here? If this is supposed to be political--”

Frederik makes a noise and puts his drink down. He swallows. “It’s not. If I wanted the other five Canadians to be here I would have welcomed them.”

Connor rubs a hand down his face. “I’m _only_ political. I should be with them, they’re probably looking for me.”

“As far as they know, you’re staying overnight at the conference centre.”

“They’re not going to take your word for it. They’re a...how should I say it. They take our safety very seriously.”

“Because they think we’re a danger. Is that what you think, Connor? Answer me honestly.”

Connor wishes he could down something with a higher alcohol content than this so that he wouldn’t remember anything from tonight or be able to think back on just how bad he’s breaking protocol here.

“I think I haven’t seen enough to clear you of everything you’re accused of.” It sounds good when it comes out of his mouth, considering his brain is mush.

He hits a point of interest; Frederik lights up. “What would that be?”

“Do we have to talk about it?”

Frederik gets into his personal space, one arm on the back of the couch they’re sharing. “What do I have to do to change your mind?”

“You don’t have to do anything. Like, there are people saying all kinds of shit but whether or not it’s true, it doesn’t matter. What _I_ think doesn’t matter, I’m just the messenger.”

“I don’t think you are,” Frederik says, almost before Connor has finished his sentence. “I think you’re downplaying a lot about yourself. I see through you.”

Connor’s shoulders bounce up. “And what do see?”

“I see someone who has a healthy dose of skepticism but probably more brain than the other fools that lead him.”

Connor feels a blush rising to his cheeks. “What does that have to do with me being a diplomat?”

“You’re not trying to see what someone else wants to show you. You’re at war with yourself because you think we’re bad, but that’s just what everyone else has told you to think. You don’t _really_ believe I’m a bad person, or you wouldn’t be feeling what you are.”

“I don’t feel anything for you.”

“That’s where I think you’re wrong.” What starts as a hand on Connor’s knee works up to his thigh. “If I’m wrong, tell me.”

They’re drunk on wine and their own undeniable attraction to one another. It’s against everything in his nature to lie down for Frederik and let him do as he wishes. At the same time, it’s something he wants. Has wanted. 

He should draw the line, put his clothes back on and get a drive back to the hotel where there sit binders upon binders and slips inside ziplock bags that warn him that something--or someone--in Denmark is rotten to the core.

Frederik pins down his wrists and kisses him free of his thoughts. Nothing is on Connor’s mind but him in a few minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> connor and freddie get drunk on wine and engage in sex. they both consent to this, though connor is conflicted because of his position.


	5. Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations and warnings are in the end notes!  
> note: you dont need to translate anything connor is saying for the story to make sense. but if you want to know, theyre down there! im going to work on trying to format it into the story

Connor was not in the right state of mind when he decided to sleep with Frederik. He was homesick and had too much to drink and the combination of both made him lower his defences just enough for Frederik to hook a finger over the edge and tear him down as if he was Christmas wrapping paper.

He compensates for what he’s done by waking Frederik up at six in the morning the next day. Under normal circumstances, he would never say he has a temper but today would be the exception. Frederik makes the mistake of trying to argue with him and gets a taste of Connor at his worst, with one too many backhanded compliments and under-the-belt things to say. Connor doesn’t stick around to make himself at home, picking his binder up from the couch and walking out the door the second he has his clothes back on his body.

It’s pitch black outside. Unfortunately, he needs Frederik’s cooperation to get him a ride back. In his crooked state of mind, Connor imagines it as something Frederik will use to have him on his knees, begging for forgiveness. Sucking up isn’t an option either, unless he wants to throw his pride on the line too.

Frederik has to know that he can have Connor at his beck and call for the next hour or two, which makes his decision to take the high road look much better by comparison. He unlocks the car in his garage under the condition that Connor sits in the front with him, which, as far as compromises go, is not bad at all. In turn, Connor accepts the cup of microwaved coffee Frederik puts in his hands and takes a tentative sip; his version of a peace offering. It’s much too dark for him, so bitter-tasting that it makes his whole face scrunch up.

If Connor thought it was quiet during the day, then mornings are that taken to the extreme. Street lamps only turn on when they drive by and even then, they are so dim that they’re not of much help at all. Not a single place, residential or commercial, has lights on inside. Someone even goes as far as to stop them at an intersection downtown and look into their car with a flashlight; by the looks of it, a member of the local police. Since Frederik doesn’t seem bothered by it at all, Connor lets his body go slack, thanking the man as they drive onward.

He’s hardly thinking about why they would be stopped in the first place; he has a whole other problem to work through before breakfast. He goes in expecting to have another talk with Max about boundaries only to find that no one looks at him funny. No one looks at him at all. As he soon finds out, their meeting last night ran late. Everyone is trying their best to hold themselves together, meaning that they’re not looking at Connor to try and find out why he’s holding himself like he just sat on a barb. As far as they’re concerned, Connor went to bed early.

It’s good and bad at the same time. Good because he’s not going to be unemployed when they get back home, bad because he’s not going to be held accountable for what he just did. Also on the bad end of the spectrum, he’s got Frederik to worry about now. There was no resolution to what happened last night and there really should have been. Connor wasn’t able to find his voice in the car, so now he has to wait for the opportunity to set the record straight with Frederik, something much easier said than done. 

After a quick breakfast, they’re dropped into the vehicles that will take them to Tivoli Gardens for what will be another big public appearance. The amusement park is closed on account of the winter, so today they’re only using the pavilion infrastructure to host a series of conferences and some Q&A panels. From the sounds of it, the Gardens will be open to the public as well, which is great because today will be one of the only times they have permission to ask people about the changes to everyday life, at least according to the politicians that come with them.

Where they’re going to be is not so much a problem as it is getting there in the first place. It doesn’t take a detective to realize that the last minute separation of the Canadians, leaving Connor with no one to ride with but Frederik, is not some act of God. Connor can hardly be surprised when it happens, and when no one else comes with them to boot. They do have a driver, but a thin pane of glass separates him from them. Even if he could hear them over the rumble of the road, Connor doubts he would even think of repeating anything that’s being said behind him.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Frederik says, the second the door is shut. 

It takes Connor by surprise. Frederik is so no-nonsense that it feels like he would be the first person to talk down what they did. He had his suspicions of course, but was hanging onto a sliver of hope that they would both see eye-to-eye on this.

“It was wrong.” Connor wraps his arms around himself in a backwards hug.

“I don’t regret it.”

Connor turns his head to the side, his face creased with a frown. “Frederik, I could lose my job.”

“Not if they don’t find out.”

“This is serious. You should have stopped me.”

“I asked you if you wanted to and you said yes. Are you telling me you didn’t mean that?”

Ice freezes over Connor’s throat. “No I’m--I’m not saying that you took advantage or something. It’s just that morally, what we did was wrong. Something can be bad without it being rape.”

It’s on the extreme end of making an argument but it shuts Frederik up for a second. Later on in the drive, Frederik comes back and tries his best to stir the coals underneath them, hoping to start a fire that gets the conversation going again, but it is in vain. Connor won’t budge on this. If Frederik won’t see from his point of view then it makes no sense to argue with him. 

Once they’re there, the day improves substantially. Even if the Gardens are just being opened for the weekend, the display of light and colour they’re putting on is nothing short of spectacular. They’re inside a time capsule, responsible for the amusement of people both young and old for centuries. Everything about the place is so organic that the fake smiles from the people waiting on them are like the crack of a whip by comparison. It’s what you expect people from the happiest country in the world to look like, but it doesn’t take away from the fact that they make him uncomfortable; they are insincere.

After they’re all accounted for and with the permission of their chaperones, they’re finally allowed to get out of there and start asking questions. There are fewer people around than there would be in peak summer months but enough to sample from. It seems that most of the people are here to stand in line at vendor stalls for hot food, otherwise Connor can’t think of a single reason why they would take time out of their busy day to show up. There is, of course, the idea that they’re here to speak to the Canadians directly, but he can’t prove or deny that.

Connor starts on a family of four that crosses his path, by the fountain at the mouth of the exhibit. One of the Danish translators follows him, stepping on the backs of Connor’s shoes to make his presence known.

The mother’s hair is tied in a loose braid, with strands of blonde hair sticking out. She looks up at him with wide eyes when he approaches. Connor tries his best to look non-threatening, dropping his shoulders and relaxing his face so that she can’t see his wrinkles. His dark under eyes, he can’t do much about.

"Goddag,” Connor says in greeting. “Hvordan går det?”

It’s not his area of expertise but he figures approaching them in their native tongue will help them relax. He blames their method of approaching them for why they look at him with their eyes turned down; it’s the natural response to any member of authority asking for a minute of your time. Just asking how they are seems to help them come around to talking to him, however. 

“Godt, tak.”

“Hvad hedder du?”

“Mit navn er Rachele.”

“Det er rart at møde dig. Jeg taler ikke godt dansk.” He doesn’t think he needs to tell Rachele that he doesn’t speak Danish well but it feels like the safest thing to do. “Kan du hjælpe mig?” 

He points to his translator, who helps clarify that Connor wants to ask her some questions in a nice, short sentence. She gives them a nod, releasing the hand of her child so that he can join her husband by the side bench, where he’s sitting. 

With the hard part of the interviews out of the way, Connor can revert back to speaking in English and with it, experience the relief of knowing that what he’s trying to say is what he’s _actually_ saying.

“Can you ask them about what everyday life is like?” he asks of the translator, who puts it in Danish for her.

Rachele takes a stab at the question with a pinched look on her face. He gets it; it’s mundane enough that you have to think about an answer that isn’t one word. Connor tries to pick up what she’s saying as she’s responding to him but everyone here speaks so fast, it’s hard to keep up. He only had a few weeks to prepare for this visit, and it shows.

The translator lightly touches Connor on the shoulder. “She says all is the same, except they must be more careful. They don’t go outside without reason.”

Fair enough. It wasn’t a question he was expecting to get a lot from. The next ball he throws at her takes a bit of a curve.

“Are your children homeschooled?”

The translator fumbles on one of the words but goes back over his sentence to make sure it Rachele can understand him. After she speaks, he tells Connor, “no, the children are in school from Sunday evening to Friday morning. That’s why they are here right now.”

“So they live at the schools?”

“Most children in Copenhagen do.”

“Interesting. Ask them if what their children learn in school is any different.”

The corners of the translator’s mouth turn in. “Is that relevant?”

Connor has no time to prepare something nice to say back. “I want to see how the children are affected.” 

Reluctantly, the man asks for him. It takes the translator a second to find out how he wants to phrase it for Rachele, making Connor wonder if he’s trying to rework the question in any way. He already has his worries about a second person adding a confound to his research, the last thing he wants to worry about is if he’s deliberately trying to change what he’s asking.

The mother glances back at her children, who are kicking up snow with their boots. The number of words that leave her mouth can be counted on one finger. The translator shakes his head.

“She’s confused.”

“About what?”

“Nothing in schools are different. Where did you hear that?”

“I--what? I didn’t hear anything, I was just asking.”

Rachele appears to have had enough, flustered from head to toe. She thanks him in the middle of his confusion with the translator and then slips away. Her husband waits for her, both children staring at the group. 

Connor lets them go without saying a word to them. He’s peeved at something that’s not them, but he could see why they might be scared away. If he ran after them, well, that wouldn’t make them like him any more. It would probably do more harm than good.

Every other person he interviews says much of the same, with no real difference in their opinions. The only big change is that some take a bit longer to find their voice. They look at him like they can’t decide whether he’s a threat to them or not. In the background of it all, Connor can feel eyes on him and knows the culprit. It gives him the creeps. 

He needs some space from Frederik and is incapable of getting it, no matter where he goes in this demonstration. It looks like a similar case for the other Canadians, without the baggage. He doesn’t have to be close to Max to know that the scowl on his face is supposed to be scaring away Lars, who notices Connor staring at them and waves.

His discomfort builds inside of him like steam trapped inside a pot on the stove until just the slightest touch on the arm or side has him spiralling into sensory overload. It feels like they’re getting nowhere--and Max did warn them that the only people they would be allowed to talk to would probably be from a preselected crowd--and he needs, just for one second, to not be weighed down by shame. 

Crowds are as much a blessing as they are a curse, depending on what you’re doing. He’s been on the receiving end of trying to find a needle in a haystack, a face among many in a surge of people, but now it’s to his advantage. He’s able to slip away unnoticed when he asks about getting something from the car.

The stones are slippery under his feet from the black ice and he almost falls flat on his face once he gets going. People look at him funny when he passes them, probably because they’re all walking at the same pace. Connor has yet to see anyone in a hurry and for a reason: it turns heads. Yet, no one calls out his name. He’s allowed to proceed until he’s behind one of the stands, giving him sufficient enough cover to slide down the bank. 

The back area is lightly wooded, with a chain-link fence holding people back from entering the enclosure. It’s a weak defence; someone wanted to go over it, they could. By the rusted fence are dying trees, gray at the roots.

If you look around the foliage, you can see that you are in front of a main road. It’s a look at normal street life, only there are no children and the adults all wear a grey colour scheme that washes out their skin, turning them into pasty globs that cross the streets when the light colours tell them to. Even despite the choice in fashion, their faces are clean. The women look to be showing great respect to their appearance, spinning their hair into patterns that Connor can’t imagine being possible with only two human hands and a mirror to work with. The men are in long jackets, a white caveat around their necks. No one walks together, even if they look to be part of a group.

Then, there’s the man just outside the fence. Unlike his peers, he looks downtrodden and dirty. There are holes in his winter jacket. In one hand, he has a pair of clippers. He appears to have cut the wire on top of the fence, most likely used as an extra precaution to keep people out with.

When the man sees Connor, he initially backs away. They stare at each other for a second, both trying to size the other up. Something passes in the man’s eyes. It shorts out and comes alive over and over again, hypnotic in the way that it works. Connor can’t look away.

The man inches closer. Connor picks up the smell of mothballs and chewing tobacco. 

“Jeg har brug for din hjælp.”

“Taler du engelsk?” He needs to know if the man can speak in English before he poses any more questions. 

To his dismay, the man shakes his head. It’s not a good start. Connor can’t guarantee that he’ll be able to help the man if there’s a language barrier between them.

The man does not look disappointed. He reaches into his back pocket and fishes out a slip of white paper. His thumb and pointer finger squeeze down to make sure it doesn’t fly away until Connor can grab it and take a look at what’s inside.

It’s a picture of a young woman, no older than her early twenties, looking into the camera with a pearly-white smile. Below is an address. 

“Min datter,” the man says, pointing at the image. “Min datter. Alma Jessen. Min datter.”

“Your daughter? You want me to find your daughter?” There is a surge of information in his head, so overwhelming in its nature that he forgets for a second that the man does not speak English. “Vil du have mig...go to, uh--gå til, din datter?”

“Nej!” The man’s head shakes from side to side. “Jeg har mistet min datter.”

“What?” He can only pick out the word daughter again.

In a second, the man has hopped the fence. Up close, he looks so much bigger.

“Hvad vil du have?” Connor asks him.

Without missing a beat, the man answers. “Min datter.”

“You want your daughter? Is she here?” He jabs his finger at the address point, enough for the paper to crumple around the point of impact. 

The man recoils, as if by damaging the paper Connor is somehow hurting the girl inside of the picture. He strikes. His right hand grabs Connor by the wrist. He holds it tight, not like if he were holding a small bird or a frog, but a stone. The angle alone makes it uncomfortable.

Instinctually, Connor tries to pull back, which only makes the man hold on tighter. His hairy eyebrows hold together as he looks down at Connor, who feels like he’s a bug ready to be squashed. The paper in Connor’s hand trembles.

He’s almost grateful to hear a man--a different man--speak. His voice is the slap of water on concrete, commanding in every way. Connor sees the blur of black and blue: like bruises. The next thing he sees is a gun pointed at him.

Upon seeing the police close in, the man panics. Using his toes, he rushes back the way he came, only remembering that he has Connor by the wrist when he pulls the diplomat along with him. The two crash into the fence. It twangs with the force of the blow.

Connor’s foot lands on the ground in a position that makes pain shoot up his leg. He cries out. His saliva dries up in his mouth and his body begins to retract into a defensive position.

He hears the voices coming to his rescue before he sees the men in person. Hands lunge out, grabbing and moving him. He doesn’t know what’s up or down, just that his leg hurts. It’s hard to so much as wiggle his toes. It’s the joint, no it’s the _bone_ , he tells himself. He has no idea why, it’s only scaring him further.

More police appear, they leak out of every crevice. As for the man, he knows he’s surrounded. When the police throw him to the ground and grind their guns in his back, he doesn’t move. Connor can hear his chest rattle from here.

“He didn’t attack me,” he tries to get out, the gravel beneath him cutting into his face like shrapnel. The last thing he wants is for the police to kill the man because they think he’s a threat. “Jeg har det fint! I’m fine!”

It appears that even if they can understand his pronunciation, they aren’t listening to him. Connor’s eyes shut and all he can hear is the man pleading as he’s taken away. The paper in Connor’s hands, ripped in the corners but in one piece, is slid into his jacket’s front pocket. 

He was a father looking for his daughter. Connor can only imagine the worry he’s feeling if she’s gone. If only they were able to communicate, if only the police hadn’t come when they did, he might have been able to deescalate the situation. 

Once the man is gone, the attention turns back on him. They find out that it hurts to put weight on the ankle, as evidenced by Connor’s wounded cry. He tries not to assume the worst or even consider it a possibility, but when one of the policemen says the word doctor, he can’t be in more of a hurry to agree with him.

As they’re helping him get into the car, Frederik runs over. He’s red in the face. Both of his hands are raised and for a second, Connor thinks he’s going to try grabbing his foot. 

“It’s not an emergency,” Connor says to him. “I’m fine. I just want to get out of here.”

“Right,” Frederik says. “Of course. One second.”

He shuts the door and walks around the back to enter the passenger seat door. At this point in time, Connor’s not sure if having Frederik close by would be a comfort or just another thing to worry about. By not having Frederik right here beside him, he spares himself the thinking necessary to come to any sort of conclusion. 

The lady at the clinic takes them in without saying a word. There are no line-ups or wait times and the physical examination that follows is short. Nothing about the doctor’s body language reads as concerned but try telling that to Frederik, who is sitting beside the examination table with his fingers hooked around the arm of the chair he’s in.

“There was a previous fracture, years ago.” Frederik answers for him. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

The doctor responds. “It’s not. I think the ligaments are stretched. He said he could put his weight on it, so it’s nothing serious. I would still take it easy with the walking for the next few days.”

She’s not looking at Connor as she reveals the results but he could care less. Being on the other side of an examination with good news is nothing less than euphoric. 

The treatment for a light ankle sprain is ice, compression wraps, and rest; it’s not rocket science. Connor’s profession isn’t something that requires he be on his feet all day, even if it’s a big help. With that in mind, it changes very little about his routine. If he somehow lost his voice, _that_ would be a problem. More than this, anyway.

Even with the all-clear, it’s hard to look at his foot, how it throbs under his hand. Frederik is there when he’s having trouble keeping up with the instructions, pressing ice to the spot where it hurts the most. He, for some reason, looks remorseful of all things. It’s the inappropriate response given the circumstances.

Frederik says nothing to him until they’re in the elevator of the hotel. Connor is using him as something to lean on, having denied crutches. 

“I apologize for what happened today,” Frederik says.

“It’s okay, you couldn’t have known.” He really couldn’t have.

“No, I take full responsibility. You shouldn’t have been allowed to wander. We’re just lucky that the injury wasn’t anything serious.”

“Yeah, I was.” The elevator dings, telling of their arrival on the third floor. Connor hobbles out with Frederik behind him, both hands ready to help at the first indication of any pain.

Connor pushes a hand into his pocket to grab his key card and feels a flutter that can only be the paper from earlier. He clasps the opening shut, desperate for it to not fall out on the floor. Frederik is too busy paying attention to his foot to notice.

When Connor steps inside the privacy of his room, Frederik initially tries to follow him, only for Connor to try closing the door in his face. He doesn’t do it on purpose, it’s just that he’s too distracted to remember there’s someone behind him.

Regardless, Frederik stops in place. “Can I come in?”

“It’s your building,” Connor points out.

“I know that, but it’s also where I’m housing our visitors. Your comfort is important too.”

Connor opens the door just enough for Frederik to step in. His room is in part disarray and also disorganization. He throws his coat over some loose documents that have slipped out of his binder, the reason being that they weren’t hole punched.

Frederik sits on the bed. It creaks because of his weight. He pats the spot beside him but Connor does not sit.

Instead, he says, “we need to talk about what happened yesterday.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I just want to say my piece. We shouldn’t have had sex. It was an error of judgement on my side and I’m sorry.”

Frederik interlocks his fingers. “I don’t accept your apology.” Connor opens his mouth to respond but he shushes him and continues. “It’s unnecessary. You need to stop walking like I’m going to slit your throat for doing something wrong. Do you really think that low of me?”

“Of course not, but it was unprofessional, what we did.”

“I like that about you. I like that I’m able to talk to you as a person. It makes you special, unique even. I’m not going to persecute you for it.”

“Sure.”

Frederik looks down at the graveyard of book spines on the floor. “I also trust that we’re both mature enough not to bring it into negotiations.” He looks back up when he’s finished speaking.

“Of course.”

“So I don’t see the problem, really. I don’t think being attracted to you is any crime.”

It’s different knowing what his looks did to someone versus having them say it out loud. Connor wants to bury his face in the nearby throw pillow and scream into it. He brings his hand up to cover his mouth.

What’s between them is not fixed nor does it resemble what they had before. It takes on a different shape. Before, it hadn’t registered that the man in the room with him was a member of the political body, responsible for deconstructing an entire country. It’s different now, he can’t put his finger on it. It feels like Frederik’s arms are also his laws, constricting around Connor like a snake about to swallow its prey. At the same time, Connor wants the comfort of knowing he’s held. 

Connor sits down on the bed with him. “I leave in two days,” he tells him. It’s out of the blue but he feels like he needs to say it now, before he gets carried away.

Frederik’s eyebrows drop.

“I know--”

A knock on the door stops him from saying more. Frederik looks happy to keep speaking and trample over whoever’s on the other end until he hears her voice. 

“Connor? It’s me, Maria.”

They both stop. Whatever was between them scurries out of the room. 

“I should answer her,” Connor tells Frederik, in a whisper. 

“We need to finish talking,” Frederik argues.

“We will. Just, not right now, okay?”

Frederik doesn’t look happy but to give him credit, he does give Connor the space he’s asking for. On the way out, he takes Connor’s disposed coat and hangs it on the wall bracket inside the room’s closet (unbeknownst to how it puts Connor on the edge). 

“If you need anything, just ask for me,” he tells Connor.

“I will. Thanks for the heads up.” He waves goodbye at Frederik, hoping it will help him out the door a bit quicker. It’s still long enough to be awkward for both of them.

Luckily, Maria doesn’t comment on why there’s so much charged energy in the room with them. She walks up to him with her hands clasped in front. 

“Max wanted me to check in and make sure you were okay.” She begins to unbutton her winter coat as she speaks.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just my bad foot, that’s why everyone was worried.” It’s a bit far from the truth, only Frederik knew that he had problems with it in the past. Everyone else thought he was attacked and the red mist that came over them took care of the rest.

Something tickles the back of Connor’s head. There was something he wanted to do, right at the tip of his tongue.

“Do you need me to cancel your appearances tomorrow? You could use the rest.”

“God no. It’s a light sprain.” He motions at the ice pack Frederik left sitting on top of it. 

“Okay, that’s good. I won’t overstay my welcome but if you need me, I’m just two doors down.”

Connor hums. “Yeah, okay.” He gives her a thumbs-up. 

As she’s walking out, what he wanted to say smacks him over the side of the head. He sits up in bed, alert. “Wait, wait! Come back.”

Maria stops by the door. She’s toying with the rings on her finger. “Yes?”

“Actually, I have something I want a second opinion on. Can you get my coat from the closet?”

“Sure.” She pulls it out and walks over with it. The snow on the shoulder has melted and made the fabric damp to the touch.

The paper is still there when Connor’s fingers poke into the pocket. There’s a wrinkle over the woman’s face, but it doesn’t stop him from being able to identify her. Maria looks over his shoulder, her face perplexed.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“When I stepped away, I was able to make it to the fence. I saw this guy here, about Max’s age, and he gave me this picture.” Maria takes it from his hand. “He kept saying this was his daughter. I asked him if we needed to find her and he said no.”

“Okay,” Maria says, slowly. It looks like she’s still breaking down what’s in her hands.

“Anyway. I thought you might understand it better than me.”

"You said he didn't want us to find her?"

"It seemed that way. But then why give me the photo?"

“Yeah, this is--” she pauses, swallows her words, “maybe he was asking for help?”

“The thing is, he knows where she is. He wrote the address right there. If he knows where she is, why would he ask for my help?”

It’s one of those cases where you put the pieces together in your head as you’re asking the question. He trails off on the last word.

Maria is two steps ahead of him. She disappears down the hall and comes back with her laptop. Without asking, she grabs the paper from Connor and types the address in the search engine. 

Normally, they would take more precautions than this on a network being tracked by the government. The last time they used it was to access a page similar to Google translate in the middle of a conference call. Even then, they were afraid that one search would somehow make the government think they were up to no good. By comparison, this is much worse, but they’re not thinking about that in the heat of the moment.

“It’s an island,” she says, at last. She turns her computer so that Connor can see.

It _is_ an island, with 400 inhabitants to be exact. It’s west of Zealand and can only be reached by ferry. Sejerø is the name. It looks beautiful from the few pictures on Denmark’s official website.

“This is great,” Maria says to herself. 

Connor eyes her. “How is this great, exactly?”

“We’ve been looking for the places where they’re rounding up the population. We could use this to build a case against them.” She waves the paper in front of his face to help make her point. 

“We don’t even know why she’s there,” Connor argues.

“It’s something. If we go to her and we find out whether she’s really a prisoner or kidnapped or whatever then we could--”

Connor rears back, his eyes half-shut. “Woah, calm down. I never said anything about her being a prisoner or kidnapped. For all we know she could have just been relocated.”

“This man that spoke to you, he had to have known we were there, right? It was advertised. Maybe he was just looking for the opportunity to find someone that could help him. He found _you,_ Connor.”

“I’m not saying that he wasn’t asking for help, I’m just saying that we literally have nothing to go off of here. And you can’t seriously expect us to actually go to her.”

She purses her lips. “Why not?”

“Well for starters, it says it’s a seven-hour drive to the landing. No--not even drive, you’d have to take the train. You remember when we went to Odense? How many checkpoints we had to cross? You wouldn’t even make it halfway there.”

Maria doesn’t look convinced. “That doesn't mean we should just ignore it.”

“I understand but it’s not going to be an open and shut case. It’s not our job to go out into the field and investigate this.”

“Sure but--”

“We were told not to make waves. Besides, she’s not a Canadian. Her own father didn’t speak English.”

Maria looks visibly uncomfortable at the sentiment. “She doesn’t have to be Canadian for me to want to help her.”

Connor rubs his arms. “Yeah, I know. You get my point though.”

Maria gets up without saying a word and enters the attached bathroom, closing the door behind her. Connor tries his best to distract himself in the meantime by fussing over his foot, but nothing works. He feels hollow on the inside. In any other situation, he would assume he was hungry and eat himself sick. This doesn’t feel the same; it’s not gluttony. It’s a hunger for something else he can’t put his finger on.

He hears the tap running and then the squeak as it’s turned off. Maria steps back out of the washroom, her hands and face wet.

She takes a deep breath before speaking. “Connor, I have to do this, I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“Can you tell Andersen that I’m sick in bed for the day--maybe that it’s the reason why I came here in the first place? I just need a day.”

Connor’s voice hardens. “Maria, you’re not going.”

She tucks one black hair behind her ear, clearing her throat. “I have someone I think I can bribe into getting me a ride there.”

“We don’t know anything about this country is run, for all we know you could be arrested!”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take. Worst case scenario, you know where I’m going.”

“Maria--” 

She gives up on him, walking out the door without hearing what he has to say. It’s not like he can stop her in the elevator. To his point, an aftershock runs up his leg, as if to taunt him.

He's faced with uncertainty in the face of very real and imminent danger. There's always the option of him appealing to Frederik, keeping her safe at the risk of attracting unwanted attention to himself and being labelled as a traitor. He could put his trust in her to come out alive even with the odds stacked against her. He only really has two options to take into consideration here. Both don't sound good at all. 

For the rest of the day, Connor has to sit alone with his thoughts. He can’t get up and move around for something to do, so he turns on the television. There are only five working channels he can pick from, all of them playing very similar programming. He remembers checking them out once, on their second day here, but nothing caught his eye. He hasn’t turned it on since.

He stops on one that looks familiar. It’s an overhead view of one of the pavilions they were at today. The shot changes and he’s looking at Max, pointed smile and all. He’s in an animated conversation with the person next to him, one of the ladies from the media. 

Below him is a banner with big white text, part of the broadcast. Connor can recognize the word for Canada, but that’s about it. Out of curiosity, he decides to use one of the apps on his phone to translate it. He’s not about to go on the internet again and wave more red flags.

_“Canadians to come to an agreement with King’s Court: foreign aid to help prosecute war criminals.”_

Connor wasn’t listening in on many of the talks today so he can’t confirm if that actually happened or if this is a gross exaggeration. Anyhow, something doesn’t feel right. Back in Canada, war criminal has a very no-nonsense definition. Here, for all he knows the man from today could be called a war criminal. _Maria_ could be called a war criminal. If bringing her to justice, or in his words revealing her plan to the Danish authorities, means she'll be kept alive, is it worth the risk?

He incapacitates himself with his boredom, documenting everything that’s happened, all his fears and insecurities, in his official report of the day. At any moment, he expects Frederik will walk in and press him to the wall, but whether it’s to hold a knife to his throat and accuse him or conspiracy or smother him with a kiss, he’s not sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **“Goddag. Hvordan går det?”**  
>  "Good day. How are you?"  
>  **“Godt, tak.”**  
>  "Good, thanks."  
>  **“Hvad hedder du?”**  
>  "What's your name?"  
>  **“Mit navn er Rachele.”**  
>  "My name is Rachele."  
>  **“Det er rart at møde dig. Jeg taler ikke godt dansk. Kan du hjælpe mig?”**  
>  "It's nice to meet you. I do not speak good Danish. Can you help me?"  
>  **“Jeg har brug for din hjælp.”**  
>  "I need your help."  
>  **“Taler du engelsk?”**  
>  "Do you speak English?"  
>  **“Min datter. Min datter. Alma Jessen. Min datter.”**  
>  "My daughter. My daughter. Alma Jessen. My daughter."  
>  **“Nej! Jeg har mistet min datter.”**  
>  "No! I lost my daughter."  
>  **“Hvad vil du have?”**  
>  "What do you want?"  
>  **“Jeg har det fint!**  
>  "I'm fine!”
> 
> the word 'rape' is used in the context of "something can be bad without it being rape.” it is not trying to refer to anything that has occurred in the story. connor meets with the father of a political prisoner and is injured in the confusion that follows their discovery. it is inferred that the man will be arrested as well


	6. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in the endnotes!

Before he’s even responsive the next day, he feels rotten. It took him hours to fall asleep thanks to his ankle, which ached even with the cold pack strapped to it with an elastic band. What happened yesterday hadn’t done him any favours in the anxiety department either, leading to tossing and turning and a stomach cramp that he couldn’t make go away. He never thought it would be hard for him of all people to knock himself out, but then again he’s never been in the position of having someone’s well-being be endangered by him before.

He’s dreading that morning even before he gets down to the hotel’s restaurant and sees the pandemonium. There are more people here than ever before, a majority of them police or army men. It seems that they’re high on their newfound power too, as they make him walk the long way around the room just for the pleasure of seeing him listen to them. The other Canadians are receiving similar treatment: they sit spaced out from one another, typically with a diplomat or administrative member between them. If there exists any real life analogy for what it’s like to drop a Mentos into Diet Coke, this is it.

Connor tries to be as low maintenance as possible, grabbing a plate of food and taking a seat at a table in the corner of the room. He pretends not to notice how one of the guards separates from the group and idles close by, making it clear--without saying a word--that he intends to stay within close proximity of Connor. 

Connor’s stomach turns on its side, a salad toss of emotions making his insides sputter. The food he ingests is incremental: a bite of a pastry and a spoonful of oats. It’s only enough to tide him over for an hour, at best. He might have been able to manage more, if not for the guard looking over his shoulder. It kind of reminds him of when he was a kid and his mother would get mad at him for petting Mr. Samuelson when the cat was trying to eat. It took him years to find out why, now he understands better than ever.

This is the physical interpretation of what it’s been like to be in Denmark this whole week. By now, he knows the part he needs to play, which involves keeping sweet and looking for openings throughout the day to get work done. But even though he thinks he has them down to a science, something new is almost always guaranteed to sweep him off of his feet. Today, it’s the appearance of Lars, who has replaced the seat Frederik would usually take, across from Connor.

Lars sits with only a glass of water to supplement for breakfast. He takes a small sip before he begins.

“Where is Maria Armstrong?” he asks Connor. 

“Maria?” Connor croaks.

“I ask because the last time anyone here saw her was when she was leaving your room.”

His eyes are cool as he levels them with Connor. Not accusing him, but a close cousin. Connor tries not to lose his footing.

“She told me she was feeling unwell and went to lie down right after. I didn’t see her for the rest of the night.”

“She wasn’t present for our meeting.”

Connor takes a shaky breath. “You don’t think anyone took her, do you?”

There are two ways this can go: either they dispute his claim and accuse the Canadians or go along with it and come under fire for not protecting the Canadians from terrorists or abductors. Choosing the second option would mean that they are lying to themselves. It’s also hard to believe. 

A kidnapping? Like the police would just let someone walk into the hotel and snatch a foreign diplomat? It already sounds like Lars is suspicious and why wouldn’t he be? It’s not like him to let visitors run around unchecked. Connor’s frankly very surprised that they’re not trying to poke holes in his story about how he encountered that man yesterday. 

While Connor waits for Lars to answer, he tries to turn back to poking at his food. Lars puts a hand down next to his head, forcing him to look up. “We are worried for her well-being. If you know where she is, I need you to tell me,” Lars says.

“I’m just as worried as you are. If I find anything out, I’ll let you know.” He blinks, making his eyes a touch wider. If there’s even a sliver of a chance that Lars doesn’t know where she is, he’s not going to cue him in.

Lars stares at him for a moment before he withdraws. “Thank you, Connor. I hope you understand that we’ll be tightening security for the time being.”

“Are we being arrested?”

“No, talks will continue as planned. We just need questions answered, preferably sooner than later.”

That’s the signal to end breakfast. Lars stays by his side, showing a lot more investment in him than normal as they vacate the hotel to start the day. Connor would ask why he’s so concerned about keeping him in line but he also doesn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to himself. The absence of Frederik is just as worrisome.

Clearly, the whereabouts of Maria has put everyone on edge. There are no public appearances. They lock Connor and the others in an executive boardroom, serving them hot drinks and baked goods as Max shouts at the organizational council for endangering one of their own. Seeing as how they’re all his responsibility, Max would, of course, take the disappearance more seriously than anyone else. No one on either side tries to fight with him. He’s a scary guy when he’s mad.

More important than any sales figure they can inflate is public relations. If Denmark has an underground criminal ring taking people hostage for ransom the last thing any country will do is trust them. If Maria was arrested, that’s even worse. But no one wants to speak option number two into being, so they stand around it and don’t look in. 

Connor started the day by taking notes but as the talks devolve more into madness, he gets distracted. A guilty conscience is making today intolerable. He feels like he’s on trial. It’s made worse by the appearance of Frederik an hour into the thicket of it. He slips in right as Max is tearing his counterpart a new one and makes every conversation flatline. The only person smiling is Lars, who drums his fingers on the table as Frederik takes a seat beside him. 

Max takes a second to remember what he was talking about, this time looking Frederik straight in the eye as he speaks.

He shoots right into it like a geyser. “You’re always alone with our diplomats. Tell me why I shouldn’t be holding you accountable for what’s happened to her?”

Frederik looks unamused. “I had nothing to do with her disappearance. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s hers. She was always trying to make trouble and evade our bodyguards. I hate to say it, but if she didn’t want to be a target she should have listened to what we had to say.”

“She could be dead and all you can think about is yourself?”

“That wasn’t even the first time that day that one of your own broke protocol and got hurt. The evidence speaks for itself.”

Connor wants to smack himself red. It’s one thing to know something embarrassing has happened on your behalf but another to have it brought up around people you want to respect you. 

Frederik turns his attention back to Connor when he finishes. There’s no familiarity there. His eyes are no better than the cold, unforgiving stare of a security camera, trying to judge Connor’s innocence. He now understands why a lot of people obey Frederik out of both respect and genuine fear. He’s used to only being under the influence of the one.

After it becomes clear that the meeting has begun to chase its own tail, both sides call for a break. Connor is still looking at Frederik when it happens, holding the tension inside of his body. His muscles contract to the point of pain. He’s not listening when someone else calls his name, much less notices them when they get closer to him. It’s only when they grab his shoulder that the spell breaks.

Robert, the videographer, is standing beside him with a silver carton in hand. “I was going to go for a smoke break, you want to come?” he says. “You look like you need it.”

Connor closes one eye. The sun from outside is reflecting into the room at such an intensity that he needs to protect himself. “Are we allowed?”

“Max just said we could go.”

Connor’s pretty sure everyone and their mother knows that he doesn’t smoke, but no one says anything when he tags along. It’s both for a minute alone and for some company. He’s dedicated so many hours to trying to figure out Frederik that he’s dismissed much of anything to do with the other Canadians, outside of Maria. It will be nice to have some time alone with a friend.

At first, he was not fond of Robert listening in on his conversation and selling him out to Max like he’s a kid with one hand in the cookie jar, but outside of operations, Robert’s probably one of the only people here that can take a joke. He humours his time alone with Connor, bumping his shoulder as they walk down the hall to go outside. Usually the spectator, to see Robert take an active role is a departure from what he’s grown used to seeing around here. It’s a good surprise, for a change.

When they get outside, Connor is empty-handed. Robert takes pity on him.

“You gotta hold it in between your teeth, bud,” Robert says as he hands him a butt.

Connor does as instructed, trying not to shake at the foreign sensation of having a cigarette in his mouth. After he gets a light, Robert takes a long drag and puffs out smoke. It cloaks Connor in a putrid cloud.

The way they’re turned, no one will be able to tell who’s smoking and who’s not, which is a good cover for Connor. They’re also helped by the reluctance of their guards to breathe any of it in, giving them a perimeter to work with. Both men that followed them out stand in formation by the exit doors but don’t look too interested in what they have to say.

The wind prunes the Canadians’ words, turning vowels into indistinct globs of sound that no one can tell apart. Regardless, Robert takes the necessary precautions and busies Connor with small talk so that the guards don’t overhear anything they’re not supposed to. Connor mumbles around. Neither of them even think about touching the whereabouts of you-know-who, knowing that even despite the guards’ limited understanding of the English language, they know who Maria is and what they are talking about.

Robert waits for the wind to pick up before he even tries to get to the point. “Their cigs are shit. I know they don’t get the really good stuff anymore but come on.”

Connor makes the cigarette bounce by pushing it with his tongue. “I didn’t even know they had these available.”

“Well, they have to be importing something.” Robert keeps his voice close to the ground.

“Makes me wonder what they give in return.”

“People,” Robert says, without missing a beat. It doesn’t appear to shock him, at least not like how it pulls the air out of Connor’s lungs.

“Were we able to confirm that’s the case?”

“Ask your buddy, Andersen.”

“What does he know?”

Robert covers his mouth with his hand, his shoulders and neck eroding into his jacket. “Max told me he's in the group behind most of the labour trafficking going on. Think political opponents.”

“Really?”

Robert looks ready to say something, then his eyes slide to the right. They won’t look to see if they’re being watched, but will treat it like they are.

Connor nods along. He’s conceptualized a lot of this in the notes he’s taking but Robert brings with him a sense of simplicity that knocks him over the side of the head. He wasn’t sure what Frederik had to do with the behind-the-scenes decisions up in parliament, but knew it wasn’t something good after hearing him speak about his opponents.

Connor goes for something tamer after they’re sure the guards have moved on and left them alone with their speech again. “Did you...get a lot of footage from the week?”

“They delete most of the stuff I take, but I do have some gems. I guess we’ll see by the end of our trip.”

“It’s just--I just want to see what I’m missing out on.”

“Not much. After you left yesterday, I guess they wanted people to ham up how good life is here. We were attacked with these feel-good testimonies. I think home will want to pick them apart.”

“In-flight entertainment on the ride back, maybe?”

Robert doesn’t get to say anything more before a short man approaches and points them to a garbage where they can dispose of their cigarettes. He wasn’t one of the men that followed them out. His hair is cropped short, an array of black objects dangling from his belt. He’s rougher with Connor than he is with Robert, grinding the meat of his hand into Connor’s back to make him go inside.

After having amassed a group of guards, they’re walked back to the room they were in before, now vacated except for Frederik and Lars, who is on his way out. 

Frederik wrinkles his nose when he sees him. “You smell,” he says. 

Connor thanks Robert in his head. “Yeah,” he fake-laughs. “That’s obvious, right?”

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I do when I’m really stressed out. The whole Maria thing has me scared.”

“I’m sure wherever she is, she’s fine. Is it just that, though? How is your foot doing?”

He rolls his uninjured foot on the ground. “Better. It’s sore but I can walk on it.”

“Are you wearing your wraps?”

“I am.”

Frederik nods to himself. “Good. I thought you might like the afternoon off today, to give yourself a break.”

“Uh,” Connor clicks his tongue, “no. I’m alright. I want to be here.” 

“Connor, you need to be resting.”

“I said I’m fine,” Connor bites back. He’s not in the mood for another tennis match of words with Frederik, not today. 

Frederik looks about ready to snap back when Lars pokes his head in and, in polite terms, tells them to get a move on. They drop it there, where it dies.

Under the reasonable assumption that Connor won’t drop dead from walking, they’re able to move on to more of the same thing, this time in a different wing of the building. The new location has no windows and a projector used to show some ground footage from Denmark a year ago. It’s supposed to be a backdrop to explain the spending the new military budget after the Canadian trade committee raised some concerns with the distribution of funds. 

Connor wouldn’t call what he’s seeing unwatchable but the screams of people pulled out of their cars, with fire erupting out of the windows, does make him nervous. It looks like a modern version of a propaganda film, only without the narration. Even despite the best efforts of the Danish translator, the timelines don’t add up. This would have had to have taken place about a month after the announcement that Denmark would go under lockdown. None of these people are criminals.

Connor can’t look away from what’s happening on screen. His memory flashes him a picture of that lady on the piece of paper. She could be dead or alive, missing or found, but all he can wonder now is if she’s in one of these videos, on the wrong side. It could have ended up condemning her character to just being another traitor of the government, even if she had the best intentions in trying to stop the overhaul of information and freedoms. She left behind a father, possibly now in the same place as her.

The secrets that have been using his body as an incubator for the last twelve hours keep trying to jump out of his mouth when he opens it. For reasons out of his control, he’s convinced himself that it would be a service to Maria to ask why these everyday people received the same treatment as the extremists behind those February bombings. It feels like something she would do if she were here.

But she’s not here and it’s his fault. The pain in his foot pangs: alive.

To keep himself from dissolving into a vat of his own insecurities, he inserts himself back into what the group is talking about. The projector is long gone and while human rights don’t appear to be the centre of the discussion now, the ghost of what they just saw haunts them. It feels a lot like a threat now that Maria is gone.

What they’re doing is a bare-bones type of negotiation, the kind where petty things are on the market and what you really want is locked behind the counter. No one is on the same page. In his past assignments, Connor focused a lot on climate refugees and the effects of new government legislature being applied in periphery countries. He’s used to the give-and-take model. Denmark is so different because he doesn’t have the permission to give them what they want: the approval that they seek from nations not their own. They want to open trade on their own terms and conditions, something that’s far beyond the scope of what they accomplish here.

The visit is publicity above most else, so the lack of success with negotiations isn’t a big loss. They waste the afternoon talking about it and once they hit a dead end, Max accepts the offer of another late night at the convention centre on behalf of the Canadians to make up for it. This time, it’s a small gathering. A bit bigger than a cocktail party. Connor’s not sure what the plan is, but he knows attendance is mandatory from the look Max gives him when they’re leaving the building.

He figures out later in the evening why Max was so hard-set on going: it’s Frederik’s event. It’s a lot like the political banquet they had earlier in the week, albeit with a more selective crowd. Since Max has good reason to be worried about Frederik and the people he associates with, tonight gives them the opportunity to talk face-to-face. Connor’s role to play is to make himself scarce, so Frederik won’t be trying to follow him around. It sounds easy enough, if his ankle would cooperate and stop burning with pain.

Maria’s name goes unspoken but her presence is noticeable. Guards stand by every archway and add to the claustrophobia. No liberties are taken in the name of security. Surprisingly, none of the champagne socialists seem bothered by it, even when they have to ask permission to leave the room like children do in elementary school. 

As the evening continues and they get a serving of the local food, Connor’s physical condition begins to deteriorate. The bandages he has on his leg feel too tight and he can’t imagine that standing on his feet all day has helped the circulation problem. He starts envisioning a bulbous blue swell where his foot should be and once that image is in his brain he can’t get it out. He keeps lifting his pant leg, trying to check if it’s there. Every time, he sees a slender, pole-thin leg in its place. 

It gets to a point where he decides that the best solution is to remove his bandages and get some ice applied directly to the source. However, he can’t get the privacy to do it without allying himself with one of the Danes. Frederik is nowhere to be seen, so he looks for a replacement in the crowd. He sees Lars talking to his guests and passes over them without much thought. 

It’s then that he sees Frans by the refreshment table, browsing the selection. From the looks of it, he’s been a wallflower the whole night. They were in a good place the last time they spoke, so Connor doesn’t think it’s too out of line to ask another favour of him, so long as he keeps the request small.

“Hey,” he says as he approaches Frans. He sweetens his voice with charm. “Could you do me a favour? I’m not allowed to leave without a guard. Can you walk me to the bathroom?”

“To the bathroom? Sure.” Frans rolls his shoulder, stepping to the side so that Connor can walk by him. He doesn’t make a big deal about it, which is how Connor knows he’s selected the right candidate for the job.

They depart from the party without anyone stopping them and Frans walks him to the public washrooms in the lobby. Considering they’re just a place for the guests to relieve themselves, the design of the entrance is overcompensating. A gold filigree leaf pattern winds its way around the doorframe; a swirl of black and gray creates a feature in the marble walls. Connor feels so achingly out of place standing next to it.

Frans doesn’t follow him in, thank goodness. Inside, there are two light sockets in the ceiling but one is out, condemning the other half of the room to darkness. The only other person there leaves just as he walks in, the whirr of the paper towel machine following him out.

Connor goes inside one of the stalls to work, switching the safety pin open so that the bandages let go. He deposits them inside his suit pocket, the bulge only noticeable if you’re looking for it. He doubts he’s going to get in trouble for not wearing optional bandages, but Frederik works in weird ways. It’s driving him mad with worry.

As he’s lathering soap on his hands, the door to the bathroom swings open. He looks up just in time to see Max walk in. His eyebrows are pushed down, turning his eyes into lumps of coal.

“Connor,” he greets him with a nod of his head. Max walks over to sink beside him and presses the pedal hard enough for cold water to shoot out. 

“They arrested her,” Max says, all of a sudden.

“Who?”

“Maria.”

It’s a bad outcome but it’s not as bad as it could have been, Connor can at least find reassurance in that.

“What did she do?”

Max jumps over his question. “Do you know that capital punishment is now legal here? I don’t remember them boasting about  _ that _ at their delegate meetings.”

“I thought that was just for the people convicted of murder?” And he highly doubts Maria would be capable of something like that.

“She was accredited with the conspiracy to trespass or commit larceny. That kind of thing is usually a misdemeanour but since the property involved was the government’s, it’s a felony here.”

Connor wants so badly to swear but he figures he’s already damaged Max’s opinion of him enough today. “O-Oh.”

“Now, I don’t know if they  _ will _ do anything to her but it’s something to keep in mind. I tried to get a call back to Canada but come on, they’re monitoring everything, am I not stupid to think they would listen in on our calls too?”

“So what do we do?”

“For now? I don’t know. This is far bigger than any of us. If it was another Canadian we could try to negotiate but she’s from our group. They won’t listen to a word we say.”

Connor’s tongue twists itself into knots and he stammers his way into coming up with something to say.

“Not to detract from what’s happening with Maria but did we ever figure out how they got into power in the first place, as in the real reason?”

“Why? Did someone say something about it?”

“I mean, I know to some extent they’re lying, I just don’t know how much. It’s easy to say it’s Denmark and no one expected anything but Canada has those same alt-right groups and it makes you think--”

“I don’t think that’s the case here. These people don’t have anything on their agenda except power.”

“You think so?”

“The people they persecute are their own government. It’s anarchism and social upheavals and they make me think more of left-wing extremism than anything. I think the border closings have more to do with information not getting out than a stance on immigration. But that’s just me, call me crazy.”

Connor wets his lips with his tongue. The mention of anarchism brings with it images of a population working together to overthrow the ruling powers for the good of the people, as romanticized as that sounds. It doesn’t feel like that was the case here. It certainly contradicts a lot of what they’ve been told already.

Max coughs into his elbow to bring Connor back to him. “For the record, the only reason I’m here with you--alone--is because I don’t think my guide knows you were in the bathroom. I would consider this our last one-on-one meeting for a while, so I beg of you: please be safe. I don’t want to see you behind bars too.”

He dries his hands and leaves Connor standing there, swaying on his feet.

Connor exits the bathrooms a minute after him. The skin of his palms is clammy and pale. Luckily, no one thinks to ask him what the problem is, not Frans nor the guards that are on standby. If they did, he would probably just say it was his ankle again and call it a day.

Frederik is quick to find him when he returns, with Frans in tow. He tries to give Connor a glass with a plum-coloured liquid inside, but by now Connor knows better. When he refuses, Frederik’s face softens.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. My leg was acting up.”

“Do you want to go home?”

_ Home _ . It makes his skin crawl.

Frederik says it without much conviction, like he knows Connor is just going to bump heads with him again. Connor’s not oblivious to the fact that he’s stubborn to a fault but he would never call himself that predictable, and he’s certainly not going to let Frederik bait him into staying.

This is Frederik’s sponsored dinner, he’s the guest of honour. He can’t be giving Connor his undivided attention tonight. That’s something he can exploit.

He starts throwing in small, pained noises when he moves. He bends his leg, stops himself from putting any weight on it He gets more than a few people to become concerned with his condition before he grabs Frederik by the crook of his elbow about ten minutes later.

“Actually, I might take you up on leaving early. My leg is killing me.”

“Really?” Frederik doesn’t even try to hide his frustration. ”Are you sure?”

“It’s okay. Frans said he could give me a ride back if I needed it. I know you’re busy.”

Frederik looks over his head. “Frans did?”

Frans might not be the most influential person in the room when it comes to matters like this, so Connor has to bring out the heavy artillery.

“Lars said he wasn’t doing anything else tonight, so I asked him.” Connor bites at the loose skin around his nail to keep his hand occupied. He should be safe, if Frederik doesn’t try to cross-reference anything he’s saying. 

Frederik’s jaw clenches. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Connor flashes a smile at Frederik, a small, timid thing that nowhere near compares to the looks he used to give him. Frederik doesn’t smile back. 

Connor fakes a limp as he walks over to Frans, who remains beside the wall where he’s taken up post. He locks his eyes with Connor, an unknown emotion somersaulting in his pupils. It makes them big; big enough that the flecks of green in his irises disappear.

Connor clears his throat. “Frederik said he wants you to give me a drive back to the hotel.” He raises his voice so that he can be heard over the murmur of the crowd.

“He did?” Frans looks over and into the distance, likely trying to place where Frederik is. Even despite his size, trying to find the head of red hair in the crowd is like looking for a needle in a haystack. His expression is stormy. 

“Is that all right?” Connor asks. “He said on account of my injury I should leave early.”

“I thought you said you were okay? Isn’t that why you went to the bathroom earlier?”

“Let’s just say we came to a compromise. Is this because it’s not convenient for you? I can ask someone else.”

He wears Frans down just enough to see a spider web of cracks appear. “I...It’s okay,” he assures Connor. “I can take you.”

He has a reason for picking Frans to take him home. He’s mellowed out, sensitive. Despite having a role to play in this new government, he’s a relatively small person, at least in comparison to someone like Lars or Frederik. People like him make great piggy banks: shake them enough and they have a lot of insider knowledge to give you.

Once one of the downsides to the visit, by now Connor knows how to take advantage of the two-person environment that is a car ride. He can thank Frederik for that. From there, it’s easy to open up a conversation, you just need to know what strings to pull.

The doors shut them in. As they make way onto the main roads, the wind thrashes the hood. Outside is a torrent swirl of white and gray. Frans has to drive slowly. All of his attention is on the road.

Connor rubs his face with his hands. “I had no idea Frederik was such a,” he moves around in his seat, “big policymaker until now.”

“He’s a big deal,” Frans agrees.

“How long have you worked with him for?”

“Uh, about a year.”

“So, not long?”

“No.”

“He must have started in politics young, I can find stuff about him from as early as 2012.”

“That’s not him, that’s his father,” Frans corrects him.

“Really?”

“His father was in parliament for many years.”

Connor looks for something to add, to make it seem like he was somewhat aware of the fact, but all he can come up with is something completely unrelated. “All I know about Frederik’s father is that he made him quit playing hockey to go into school.”

Frans manages a chuckle. “Yes, we went to the same university, in Odense.”

Not useful, but interesting. Connor tries to add some colour to his cheeks to look friendlier. He rubs his hands together.

“Oh, Odense was so beautiful when we visited. Frederik showed me some of the landmarks on our break, even if I don’t think he was supposed to. From the way he spoke, I figured he either had to have lived there or gone to school there.”

“He comes from Herning but he does a lot of work there, so it doesn’t surprise me.”

“So when did Frederik officially get into office?’

Frans stops mid-yawn. “What?”

“As in, when did he succeed his father? Since it sounds like his father doesn’t work here anymore.”

Frans pauses. “I don’t really know.”

To ask anything more would make him look desperate, so he ends that thread there. Connor tries something similar, something that might get Frans to reveal more to him than basic entries in a Wikipedia article.

“What about you? When did you get into politics?”

“Oh, I’m not a politician. Not like them.”

“Geography, right?”

“Something like that. I lived in the country, so it interested me. But I’m more on the side of urban development.”

“As in construction?”

“Your friend used the work repurposing, that fit better.”

Connor forces a smile. “That’s super cool.”

“Thank you.”

A thick blanket of awkward sits on top of them. Connor ends up reverting back to small talk.

“Do you find life here very different now?”

“A bit, yes. For good reasons.”

“Yeah, Frederik told me. Sometimes people like that force your hand.” What he’s saying repulses him so much that he can feel the bile sticking to his throat. It’s much more than a matter of perspective, but that being said, being on the ‘other’ side gets you nowhere. It’s the first step to any kind of infiltration. 

“What?”

“Hm? Oh, it’s an expression. You have to use force.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Was it that bad here? I know everyone says it was but...” he trails off, unsure of how to continue what he’s saying without accidentally offending Frans. He’s probably playing the tragedy card too early but these people are so seasoned to play the victim, it’s almost too easy.

As hoped, Frans latches on. “They killed many people to get what they wanted.”

“Did those...extremists, did they ever succeed at coming into power?”

“They almost did.”

“And when everyone else was killed, that’s when you took government, right? At least, that’s what I was told.”

He wouldn’t exactly call what he said a leading question but there’s only one answer he’s looking for.

“That’s true.” And it’s given to him on a silver platter.

Someone is lying. One of the first things they were told was that power was given, not taken. They said it in a way that reassured them everything would go back to normal soon, a temporary fix. Everything, all the papers vouching for sealing the borders and the deconstruction of policy, was authenticated by the old government. They told the Canadians that they had their blessing.

If what Frans is saying is true, that the people in power  _ were _ killed by the far-right groups and aren’t alive in the country somewhere, it makes no sense why everyone here is so hush about it. It would make for great publicity. But the people can’t know that. If they did, they would know that the King’s Court  _ isn’t _ actually an elected group but just an administration that took over when a spot opened up in government. They would know that right-wing violence was just a cover-up story.

Now, Connor knows that not everything was peachy keen in Denmark before, with anti-immigration populism reaching into the elections. They had small pocket groups going around saying that immigration brought crime, weakened the social safety net, and abolished national culture and tradition all in the name of nationalism. However, it’s very extreme to say that it was so bad that the ruling powers overturned their administration to combat it. The thing is, that kind of violence has implicated many countries and voted many stupid people into power, but Denmark is far and away the country with the worst to show for it. There’s something that’s made the authority become what it is and, using what Max said as a base, extremism doesn’t seem to be the culprit.

No matter what he may think, there’s no way that the death of sixty, as tremendous as that amount is, would wipe out all of the parliament and the political hierarchy responsible for the country’s well-being. Which goes back to his point on how they got into power in the first place: chances are they had someone kept alive who was sympathetic to the cause--or just easy to impersonate--and the rest was history. The whole extremism story could just be an invention.

Connor doesn’t know what Denmark is doing to its citizens to keep them obedient to the cause, if it’s doing anything at all. He’s scared to find out now. Whatever it’s doing to them, it’s doing to Maria. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if the end is confusing; i am trying to mimic the very scatterbrained process of trying to figure someone else out, balancing speculation and information together--it's purposely meant to be a bit confusing and misleading. connor will get his answers :)
> 
> mentions of political unrest, labour trafficking, and a somewhat graphic description of injury is present in the chapter. there is a significant mention of far-right violence but later in the chapter this is revealed to be a made-up story used by the government to scare the people into letting them take power.


	7. Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unrelated to the story but boy what the heck is happening between the united states and denmark right now. just when you think things can't get crazier

Alongside his ankle, Connor now has to ice his wrist. He’d think he was back at university with how many blank sheets of paper he’s gone through in a day. Even in his senior year, he never wrote as much longhand as he has here in Denmark.

He documents the visits and what they were shown: lots of decoration, not so much a day in the life of the common folk. He would have loved to see the agricultural projects, more specifically the pork farms. They used to be one of Denmark’s biggest exports and now only represent a fraction of the whole trade percentage they once contributed to. That and a few other concerns about industrial zoning make it onto paper.

It’s a longer process than one would think, a lot of the time he has to scoop out his opinion before it forms a skin on top of the actual facts and information. What he thinks is worth seeing is not necessarily an opinion shared by the government. A long back-and-forth ensues.

He finishes typing up a list of the participants from their last roundtable and sets his laptop aside. He pauses for a second, then lowers the screen so that it goes into sleep mode. His hair is damp from his morning shower and it flecks his shoulders with drops of water. 

As he’s staring down the logo on the back of the computer monitor, he hears a knock on the door. When he answers, he sees Nikolaj on the other side, the trade diplomat responsible for driving him to Frederik’s house. His blond hair is combed to the left; that’s the only amount of effort put into his appearance.

“Can we talk?” he asks Connor. His face is stern, his mouth just a thin black line.

“Yes.”

“In your room, please?”

“Of course.” 

Nikolaj closes the door behind him with his hip. His feet glide over the carpet as he shortens the distance between them.

“You need to leave, now.” There’s no emotion to it: a command.

“What?”

“You need to leave tonight, before Frederik gets your papers filed.”

Connor’s confused, it’s almost worse than being confronted with a gun. “What are you talking about?”

Nikolaj at least has the sense to look ashamed. Or scared. 

“You know that he plans on keeping you here, right?”

Connor turns his head to the side to look at his open suitcase, overflowing with folded laundry. It’s been over a day since he last checked if his diplomatic passport was in the safety pouch.

“That’s crazy, of course he’s not.” He stretches his smile like a rubber band. He hopes that Nikolaj is looking at his face and not hearing the wobble in his voice.

“You wouldn’t know, but I overheard him talking about it last night. Actually, for a few nights now. He wasn’t lying when he said you were very popular to talk about.”

“What does that even mean, keep me here?”

“There’s no way he’s going to let you walk out now, knowing the things that you know.”

“Is this about last night?”

He’s hesitant to say anything about what he discussed with Frans but Nikolaj has no such qualms.

“Not just last night, it’s bigger than that. Look, they know you had something to do with Maria’s disappearance.”

“What about Frans?”

“What about him?”

“Did--did he say something?”

Nikolaj shakes his head in disbelief. “Of course he did, that’s why we’re in this mess. He can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“Was it my fault?”

“I mean,” Nikolaj gestures at him with one hand, “you asked him. You’re not innocent. He isn’t either. He might _sound_ pitiful but there is--or should I say was--a reason we kept him around.”

He shouldn’t, but Connor feels cynical. He turns on Nikolaj, heat rising to his cheeks. “And what about you? What’s your role to play?”

“I had nothing to do with any of this.”

“You’re discussing trade, of course you do.”

“Look, I was in government before all this happened. I worked beside Eller--the father, not the son--for years. If I spoke out against the government today, I would be thrown in jail. It was easier just to go along with it. But that’s not important.” He takes a deep breath. “I have a plane going to Sweden, tonight. Denmark thinks it’s just full of machinery. If you want, I can get you on it.”

For a guy that looks like he collects movie ticket stubs, it’s admirable that Nikolaj can break news like that without blinking an eye. Connor would take offence to the fact that Nikolaj is speaking to him in that slow and methodical voice, like a parent trying to explain the concept of death to a child, but whatever he was going to say dies in his mouth before he can assign words to it.

It’s one thing to go about life expecting the worst and another to be preparing for it. As he’s picking up the pieces, he reminds himself of the fact. 

“I’m going to go home on a plane tomorrow,” Connor says. “There’s really nothing to worry about.”

Nikolaj lowers his voice. “The people before you made the same mistake. They thought they were safe, agreed to give up power and move north until everything went back to normal. They never made it to their plane. Frederik will make sure you don’t make it to yours.”

Connor could laugh; make a wicked, cruel sound escape through his lips. “What do they have to gain by keeping diplomats here?”

“It gives them time to bandage the wound. If you get out, so does the knowledge about our prisoners, the identity of the new government, and the fate of the old. It would be a public outcry in more than just one nation.”

“That’s stupid, if it gets out that they’re holding us prisoner then they achieve the same effect.”

“Not if they just say you disappeared. Or make up a story about you wanting to remain in Denmark. Then, it would only be Canada’s problem.”

“Canada would never take your word for it.”

“Maybe not but are you going to run the risk? They have footage of your consular breaking and entering into government property and could use it to implicate all of you.”

“You’re underestimating what the world will think.”

Nikolaj’s response to Connor’s anger is nothing dignifying. “You’re from Canada. Canada’s not going to send the army in for you. Six people are not worth the fight.”

The instinctual reaction is to say something scalding back but Connor can’t think of anything he can say that doesn’t acknowledge the truth to Nikolaj’s words. He always felt a tad vulnerable but now, knowing what happened to Maria, the once small feeling overtakes him.

 _Maria._ Her name sparks controversy inside of him.

“What about Maria? Maria Armstrong?”

“I can’t get her out, I’m sorry.” His eyes droop. “You have to leave her behind.”

“What will happen to her?”

Nikolaj shakes his head. “I can’t say. Look, I’d love to talk details but I have to go, and so do you. The plane leaves at one in the morning, so have an answer for me by then.”

Connor looks up at him from under the hoods of his eyelids. “Why are you doing this?”

“I was waiting for an opportunity like this to come so that I could get the word out there. Who better than you?”

Connor doesn’t think to clarify if Nikolaj is talking about him in particular or the group of Canadians as a whole. Before any of those questions can come to tongue, his guest has slipped out of the room. He leaves behind nothing; Connor could convince himself that what just happened was the result of a bad night’s sleep and leave it at that.

He’s never gone through life feeling like the prime rib roast at a family dinner but now, he can safely say it’s not very pleasant. With that thought in mind, he tries not to think too hard about what he’s heard. He has preparations to make with today in mind.

He goes downstairs and gets a few fruits and berries in some yogurt for breakfast, not feeling very experimental with the other available options. He passes over them with his flat spoon, only stopping to take small sips of his coffee.

You would think that being a man of his size, Frederik would find it hard to sneak up on people. However, he manages just fine. With no explanation, his hand lands on Connor’s shoulder. Connor’s whole body jerks in surprise. Hot coffee jumps over the rim of the cup, spilling on both Connor’s pants and the tablecloth.

“Ow!” Connor stands up.

Frederik takes a step back when the chair legs hit his shin. “I’m so sorry. I thought you heard me call your name.” 

“I didn’t.” Connor begins furiously dabbing at the spill with some napkins, to no success. It’s going to leave a stain.

“Connor, it’s okay. There’s cleaning staff here, they’ll take care of it.” 

When Connor keeps trying to blot out the brown splotch, Frederik loses his patience. He grabs Connor’s hand.

 _“Connor,”_ he barks. His grip is a vice; Connor feels his hand throb. “Are you all right? You’re very pale.”

Connor wrenches his hand back. “I’m fine. What did you want to tell me?”

“I was wondering if you had any plans for this evening.”

Connor stabs his spoon deep into the yogurt cup. “You’re in charge of the agenda, shouldn’t you know?”

“Well, since Max seems inclined to go wherever he pleases, I thought I would check with you first.”

“I thought _you_ were the one inviting us to last-minute receptions.”

Frederik’s eyebrows dip. “Are you doing anything?” he reiterates.

“No, just packing.”

Frederik takes the seat beside him. He’s impossible to ignore when he’s so close.

“If you would let me, I’d like to have you for a private dinner tonight. Just you and me.”

“What’s the occasion?

“I feel like this has been a long time coming. I need to go over some things with you, alone. You’re free to decline but,” he looks to the side, “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

He thought Frederik was done trying to play nice after yesterday. “A dinner is a bit personal, wouldn’t you say?”

Frederik’s fingers link together, leaving no gaps. “Then it’s perfect for the personal business we have to resolve.”

His words snag Connor by the throat. He knows that it’s dangerous to accept an offer from Frederik. The reason he considers it is equal parts out of curiosity and fear. It’s safe to say that if he tries to get around Frederik again, he’s going to spontaneously find one more thing on the agenda tonight and then he doesn’t get the option of saying no. He fears what Frederik will do to him out of spite if that’s the case. 

Frederik will get the answer he wants, it’s best not to waste time holding out on him.

Connor dresses in formal attire for the dinner, careful for there not to be a hair out of place. Most people would be salivating to be where he is, with mellow jazz playing in the background, chandeliers swaying overhead, and ironed white tablecloths under their plates. The fact of the matter is, he has no idea what tonight is supposed to achieve. Every sign points to it being a romantic endeavour but that tone comes packaged with Nikolaj’s warning. And Connor’s not in the mood to play games.

“You look lovely tonight,” Frederik tells him as they are being seated. “The blue is nice on you.”

“I was thinking about wearing red but I figured for tonight that would be your colour,” Connor answers. He looks down at what’s in front of him: a full glass of wine and a bowl of hot soup, topped with green onions and sour cream.

“So be it. How is your ankle?”

Connor tucks his chair in. “Okay. I get this awful pins and needles sensation when I try to stand up in the morning.”

“Do you keep your compression wraps on?”

“I try to let my skin breathe when I’m sleeping. I guess I’m afraid something will go horribly wrong and I’ll be too far asleep to do anything about it, then I’ll wake up with a mangled foot or something.” He has no idea why he’s playing along with this. Maybe because it’s easier than confronting Frederik with what he knows.

“Trust me, you’d wake up long before that.”

“I know, but I have this thing where when I’m in pain I get all loopy, and if I woke up in the middle of the night like that my few select areas of intelligence wouldn’t cover what to do.”

Frederik smiles. “Well, I’m glad that you’re better. You can be very good at hiding things from me, I didn’t want to just assume.”

There it is, the animosity Connor was expecting. It helps him feel more at home with his surroundings. He’s used to bad nations pretending they’re governed by good people but Frederik is an endangered species. He’s one of _them,_ those who make up the chain of command, the source of all the rumours. He truly believes in his philosophy and not because someone made him, but because he’s teaching the rest of the world.

Connor dips in his spoon and waits for the shallow bowl to fill with soup. He lets the flavour of ham and cabbage wash over his tongue.

“You’re not going to talk to me?” Frederik asks him, after a minute of tasting. 

Connor keeps his eyes down on his bowl. “I’m enjoying our meal.”

“Select few areas of intelligence aside, I know you’re not stupid. You don’t get into your position by being stupid.”

“So tell me what you think, Frederik.”

Frederik drains half of his glass in one go. “Mhm. Where to begin? Clearly, you don’t trust me enough to bring to my attention what happened with Maria.”

“It never crossed my mind.”

“Of course it did, you just didn’t act on it.”

“So, what do you know?” Connor covers his mouth with his hand.

“I saw her walk into your room. I know where she was going, and I know it happened to be the place where Jessen’s daughter is--the ah, man you spoke to the other day.”

Before Connor can answer, they’re served plates of steaming hot food. Connor gets a whiff of potatoes and pork, so similar to the other dishes he’s consumed over the week. Potatoes appear to be incorporated in every meal, sometimes to the point of redundancy. He wonders if it’s one of the only plants they’re able to grow on home soil now.

He waits for the servers to leave before he continues. “You put the Jessen girl there.”

“I myself didn’t.”

“Max said you were behind the labour trafficking. I think it makes sense.”

Frederik’s face breaks into a condescending smile. “Max doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“He’s the only one in the room that has any answers, since you see me as too naive to know any of that.”

“On the contrary, I think you’re a very smart individual. Just misguided.”

Connor takes a bite of the food, keeping one eye on Frederik. It melts on his tongue. He swallows.

“You don’t treat me like I’m smart. You like touring me around, like I’m some woman you want to impress.”

“You’re no woman, but I do like impressing you.”

Connor’s fingers tremble. He has trouble holding the fork in his hand. The prongs hit the corner of the plate and scrape the finish.

“Please don’t patronize me.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Tell me what you actually do here.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then why am I here, Frederik? Am I just here for you to poke fun at?”

“I want to hear what you’ve been hearing, what they’re telling you to believe.”

Connor picks up the courage to swallow another mouthful. “I assume you found out from Frans what happened. I don’t know anything else.”

“Who are you trying to convince?”

“You, hopefully. If I said anything else, I would be lying.”

Frederik finally eats something. It helps humanize him. A bit.

“You lie all the time, so I’m hardly inclined to believe you,” Frederik says.

“I guess that makes us even. I do have a question for you though.”

“After saying I do nothing but lie?” Frederik bends a finger and scratches his cheek. “Fine. Go ahead.”

Connor takes a deep breath to help get his heart and his head in sync.

“Where is your father?" It leaves his mouth sounding more like a gust of breath than actual words.

“What?”

“Why are you sitting across from me tonight and not your father?

He wouldn’t call Frederik flabbergasted, someone like him never drops to a point of comedic effect, but Frederik does need a second to straighten himself out. 

“How is that relevant?” he asks Connor.

“It’s a simple question. I don’t know why you’re taking offence to it.”

“My father? He stepped down.”

“Because you forced him to?”

“I didn’t force him to do anything, he was old.”

“So are a few members on your council, they look like they’re going on seventy. I know your father isn’t that old.”

Frederik looks dangerously close to boiling over the top of the pot. “He had health problems all his life. I did him a favour--I made sure his future was secured.”

“Where is he now? I don’t know a lot about you, including whether or not you’d throw your own family into jail, so I didn’t think I could pass judgement.”

“Shut your smug mouth.” Frederik’s mouth twists. “He’s with my mother in Herning. He gave up his power, willingly. You think you’re some great detective? You don’t know anything.”

Frederik makes a convincing argument, only because for the first time in days, he sounds genuine. It’s painful to listen to on the suspicion that Connor went where he wasn’t supposed to. Yet, he can’t be one-hundred-percent certain that Frederik is telling the truth, even now.

Connor does, however, need to apologize. “Fine. I take back what I said.”

His answer does not loosen the tension in Frederik’s shoulders. “I wonder what you had to have been told for you to go at me like that. But who am I kidding? You never trusted me. Even when I gave you the benefit of the doubt.”

“What are you talking about?”

Frederik opens up a small pocketbook he keeps close to his chest. The cover is made of thick leather and there’s a pen shoved inside the belt loop of the dust jacket. He opens it up to a dog-eared page about half-way through and clears his throat.

“‘This report is a summary of key themes discussed during the roundtable’--hm, no. Here we go: ‘the Danish participants were opposed to the recommendations made by the Canadian Delegation, led by Max Evans, on November 19, 2019.’”

“Wait, what are you--“

“It says here, under your initiatives, that you are practicing ‘cautious optimism’. Quote, ‘the Danish government is in the firm control of the _Kongens Retterting_ and domestic ‘opening-up’ is unlikely. Frederik Andersen, active in the management sector of the government, supports a country with strict border permissions. It’s evident that this decision has numerous consequences for the country’s economic state, of which these politicians are not affected by.’ And later, you say ‘greater Canadian engagement with Denmark would not necessarily serve Canadian and global interests, as politicians like the aforementioned Andersen prove to be very suspicious of outside help. They are believed to be the ones responsible for inflicting fear in their citizens for the purpose of control.’”

Those are Connor’s words being read back to him. They were supposed to be adhered to the papers in his binder. No one else was to see them without express permission first.

Frederik glowers at him. “And that’s not even the worst example I could have read.”

“Where did you get that?”

“I found it at my house when I was cleaning up. You were fast asleep.”

Connor used to believe what brought them together was sexual tension and a bottle of wine. Although he’s no stranger to politics using the bedroom as an entrance, he truly believed Frederik would never stoop that low.

His mouth hangs open. “You...slept with me to get information from my binder.”

Frederik’s lip twitches as he sips his wine. “It wasn’t just that. I like you.”

“Bullshit.”

Continuing on the trend of not taking Connor seriously, Frederik decides now would be a good time to roll his eyes. 

“Connor, it would’ve been easier to just let you pass out. I didn’t have to have sex with you, I chose to.”

Intentional or not, what he says hits a sore spot. “Fuck you. You’re a murderer and a liar.” Connor stands up, shoving his arms through the holes in his jacket. “You say you’re doing this for the good of the people but you’re just doing it for your ego.”

“Connor--”

Connor doesn’t stay to hear what Frederik has to say, whatever papier-mâché defence he’s slapped together. He has the element of surprise as he leaves; no one is expecting him to shove his way to the door. Once he stops obeying social conventions, Connor has nothing securing him to the restaurant beyond his commitment to getting work done, something Frederik has already made clear he won’t discuss. 

He doesn’t make it three steps outside before his arm is grabbed. The combined effort of his momentum with the show of force makes Connor feel like his arm is going to rip clean off.

Frederik’s voice comes too close for comfort. “Where do you think you’re going?” It shears the long hair drooping over Connor’s ear.

“I’m walking back to the hotel.”

He feels a light kick against his bad ankle. “On that foot of yours? I doubt it.”

“I don’t care, watch me.”

“Connor, be reasonable.” In his periphery, Connor can see the hands coming at him, ready to pinch the loose wrinkles of his coat. He whacks it away.

“Don’t touch me or I’ll scream.”

“Who’s going to come save you? Max?” 

It’s a childish phrase spoken in the context of someone who would do him harm. Standing here, with parking spots that house no cars and bike lanes that have no riders using them, it’s yet another reminder that he’s alone. However, he’s not going to make this any easier for Frederik by playing along. He embraces the part of himself that can’t listen to instruction and pairs it with the hatred that he can feel rising to the surface. 

Connor turns on his toe and continues to walk down the sidewalk. The light dusting of snow tickles his chin as it lands on the pads of his shoulders.

Frederik’s temper bubbles to the surface; the next yank is stronger. “Answer me when I talk to you!” he shouts.

“Fuck you!”

Frederik’s eyes glint with venom, his whole body tensed in anticipation of a fight. They’re beyond the tea talks and long walks now. Connor can’t believe he’d been so foolish as to lower his defences when he needed them most.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth.” Frederik ripens his words with the touch of an accent. “I could lock you away right now.”

“You’d be an idiot to do it.”

“No one would know. No one would care. You’d be one in a thousand.”

“Yes, they would. You might have tricked them about Maria but you do anything to me and word will get back. I made sure of it.”

He’s bluffing. Or at the very least, over exaggerating. He did mention a dinner arrangement as they were finishing up lunch earlier that day, when one of the charity ladies across from him asked if they were going to do anything besides pack that night. Robert would have his answer on the camera’s audio feed.

Frederik clenches his fists. “That changes nothing and you know it.”

“So what are you going to do, kill me?” His voice cracks.

“Why would I do that? You’re more useful to me alive.”

“As a bargaining chip?”

“Sure.” Frederik’s words feel so out of place when taking into account his tight facial expression. “Lots of people want you right now, Connor.”

“What are you insinuating?”

“I’m saying that it’s a shame you’re so mouthy around me. We could have made this work out, if you’d quit going where you’re not welcome. You weren’t always like that.”

Connor walks closer, until he’s almost chest-to-chest with Frederik. “Let me make this perfectly clear: I don’t like you. I hate you. I hate what you did to the country, how many innocent lives you trampled over, just so that you could climb to the top.”

“Oh, so--”

“You don’t care about me. This was just some sick game, so that you could get into my head and feel proud of yourself for it.”

Frederik relaxes the wrinkles in his face. “Connor, I care what happens to you. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“Oh yeah?”

“So consider yourself lucky that you’re not in jail and won’t be in the foreseeable future. Don’t forget that I can change that.”

He nowhere near resembles the man that Connor was introduced to on Monday. It’s not just the physical differences that set him apart now but also the knowledge that Connor was never supposed to have. Even though Frederik used every trick in the book, made himself out to be cordial, Connor can never forgive the fact that he took him to bed, drunk on his own wine. It will forever twist his opinion of him.

The dinner is in shambles. All that’s left to do is go home, but that is a challenge in and of itself. Connor puts up a loud fight when they pull the car around and try to get him inside of it. He doesn’t know where that car will go when the driver pushes down the gas pedal and isn’t intent on finding out in person. Frederik ends up having to use his shoulders to force Connor forward, the boy with the injured foot being no match for his muscle.

Thank goodness, they’re back at the hotel in no time whatsoever. It looms over all the other buildings, the only one with the lights on inside. For a second, Connor thought he might never see it again. The way Frederik looked at him, the choice of words he used, almost made it seem like he knew what Nikolaj was up to. 

The instant the car stops, Connor unbuckles his seatbelt tries to open the car door, only to find it’s locked. He stops in place, eyes looking down on the floor mats. When seconds pass and nothing changes, his heart grows cold with fear. Is this Frederik’s chance to gloat?

“Connor.”

Connor flexes his hand. “What?”

“I apologize for what I said earlier. I have a bad temper.”

“It’s fine.” The last word catches on Connor’s throat. He clears it, swallowing back his saliva.

“You know, I’d be willing to negotiate the release of Armstrong, on the condition that you are on the other side. You may be stubborn, but,” Connor hears him drag his body forward, “you’re the only Canadian that I can tolerate right now.”

Connor refuses to look at him. “I’d have to speak to my government, thank you. Can you open the door?”

Frederik ignores him. “Think about it. She could be going home with them, tomorrow.”

“So that’s your plan? I stay here?”

“I did say I could change things, didn’t I? You could go back, or you could wait here and see what happens.”

Connor bites his tongue. If Frederik’s insinuating what he thinks he is, this could be an opportunity to get out without leaving Maria at the mercy of a government negotiation. He can see the appeal to doing that; it helps him to realize how Frederik has hooked him with every other request, briefing it with something too good to be true.

What Frederik doesn’t know, or what Connor suspects he doesn’t, is that it’s too late for him. If he asked Connor yesterday, or even this morning before Nikolaj had approached him, his answer might’ve been different.

“I think I’ll take my chances, thanks. See you tomorrow?”

The door lock clicks. When he tries the handle, it pushes open to freedom. He scrambles to get out, Frederik’s reply following him out the door.

“See you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no real warnings besides the threat of imprisonment.


	8. Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cant believe i finished this, oh my god!  
> disclaimer: i have never travelled on a cargo plane so take some liberties with it. research doesn't like to tell you how to people smuggle

It might be Frederik’s plan to spring a trap on Connor but Nikolaj is the one waiting for him in the shadows of the hotel lobby. He looks at Connor’s pudgy red face and then into the distance, presumably to watch Frederik’s exit from the vehicle, and takes one deep breath. It seems that even without hearing confirmation from Connor himself, he knows what the outcome of the night was, and what the diplomat’s answer to his question will be.

Nikolaj relives the guards of their responsibility to walk Connor to his room and instead, he does it himself; is nothing but a gentleman as he holds the elevator doors open for Connor. Once they’re both inside, he jams the close-door button with one finger, likely to keep Frederik from sharing the ride up.

Connor toys with the plunger of a pen as he waits for the calming elevator music to begin. Nikolaj keeps his hands at his sides, eyeing Connor from the button panel. When the doors are firmly shut, he begins to speak.

“I’ll leave your door unlocked tonight. Come out at twelve-thirty and use the fire escape. I made sure the alarm wouldn’t sound.”

Connor is struggling on the first part of the order. “What do you mean, leave the door unlocked?”

“You don’t know? I guess it doesn’t matter now. After what happened with Maria they started locking the doors. It’s not important.”

“Sure.” Connor doesn’t know how Nikolaj glosses over these things like he’s reading from a list of hyphenated notes on a travel pamphlet. He’s not going to argue with him about it. Even though he’s disconnected from Connor’s social sphere, Nikolaj is a reassurance that Connor can count on, to cancel out the presence of Frederik in his life. It would be foolish to make an enemy of him now.

As per the government’s new orders, Connor is quarantined in his room. Nikolaj has no words of comfort to give him, except to remind him of their meeting time and not to be late. Connor tries to keep his fingers from twitching when the door is shut. It’s not locked but may as well be. Meanwhile, his room is quiet, save for the tick of the alarm clocks that are synchronized with the fingers of his watch. They don’t count down fast enough for his tastes.

He has a few hours to kill with no company of his own to speak of. With a new objective in mind, he retraces his steps. He unzips zippers and loosens the buckles on his luggage, pulling out shirts and various articles of clothing. He makes a rectangle sized hole in his trolley bag, lining the edges with scarves and gloves. Size-wise, the travel bag is no bigger than a large backpack but he’s not about to wheel the large suitcase down the hall and expect to not run into problems. Besides, he’s beyond caring if his suit jackets wrinkle because of the tight space constraints he has to work with.

In the hole he’s made, he places the important documents. He takes them out of the binder, sheathing the most important articles in sheet protectors. The agenda, timestamps, and various letterheads will have to be left behind. He has no paper shredder but doesn’t make it easy for the Danes, ripping each correspondence by hand and flushing any semi-important documents down the toilet.

The second the clock strikes twelve-thirty, he tucks his passport into his breast pocket and is ready to leave. The door may be unlocked but he exercises caution in opening it, looking both ways first. There’s nobody active in the halls. When he’s sure of the fact, lifts his bag by the handle so that the wheels don’t scrape the ground and makes his way outside, only stepping on the toe portion of his boots. He’s shaking from head to toe, doing everything he can to be quiet as he passes the rooms housing the Danish officials. Frederik’s room has the light on inside, his long shadow reaching out from under the door.

The fire escape is at the end of the hall, a Danish warning printed on the handle in bolded red font. He presses the prints of his fingers to the metal and nothing happens. He applies more force, hears the lever squeal as it’s used. The door gives way. 

The emergency lights in the stairwell flick on but no sound accompanies them. In unison, they direct Connor downstairs. The metal steps under his feet twang, despite his efforts to be quiet. He steps light as he descends to the back exit, paled by the yellow lights shining down from above.

A thin layer of ice is plastered to the back door, which looks like it hasn’t been used in some time. Frosted spiderwebs cling to the corner of the pane and the push bar, which Connor must brush away. He gives himself a second to gather his wits, purging the stale air in his lungs with a deep exhale. His vision sharpens back into focus.

Outside is brittle; a slap in the face by a cold palm. Connor holds his jacket close to himself, bunny-hopping over mounds of snow to get to the sidewalk. He uses the dumpsters out back as a cover from both the wind and any unwanted witnesses.

He doesn’t entirely know what he’s looking for but as luck has it, they find him first. A beam of light hits his chest and, without meaning to, he becomes a deer, staring the source straight-on with his eyes as wide as globes. At first, he’s seriously concerned that it’s a member of the police who’s about to turn a gun on him for escaping, but up close, he can see that he’s wrong. 

He comes face-to-face with a woman that looks about ten years his senior. She has a long face accentuated by the twin braids dangling in front of her ears. She’s wearing dark clothing but it’s not a uniform. At least, it’s not a policeman’s uniform.

“Connor Brown?” she asks. She has a high-pitched voice, like that of a whistling kettle.

“Yes!” he confirms.

“Come with me.”

One of the black cars from earlier is parked around the corner, hidden by trees. The lady takes him to it without saying a word. She even goes as far as to open the back door for him. Connor knows that he should at least be somewhat hesitant to climb inside but at this point, he has nothing to lose. It isn’t like this is the government’s doing. They had plenty of opportunities to take care of him earlier on. Besides, he can see a head of blond hair sitting up front.

The interior is pungent with the smell of old leather. Sure enough, Nikolaj is looking at him from the front passenger’s seat. His eyes are cool.

“You look tired,” he says. The woman joins them in the driver’s seat, greeting him with a low murmur. 

Together, they back out of the lot and onto the main roads. The gravity of what he’s doing hits Connor then, as the hotel grows smaller in the distance. He hallucinates seeing all the lights turn on as the authorities discover what they’ve done. He can picture Frederik’s face in great detail. His eyes would wrinkle, his forehead pushing his eyebrows down to make his eyes smaller. Both hands would be clenched in fists.

They’re about a block away when Nikolaj’s head pops back up. He places one shoulder on the dash, turning his whole body around so that he can look Connor in the eye.

“I’m going to ask you to keep your seat belt off. If we get stopped, I want you to flatten yourself to the floor. Don’t make a sound.”

Connor obeys, pushing down the red button on the belt holder. The strap zips by his head, just missing his ear. Immediately, he feels the hole in his gut grow. With every bump on the road they go over, it deepens in volume.

He twists his head to the side so he can look out the back window. There’s a black glut that stretches far beyond what the eye can see. It’s hard to pick out any one thing in his surroundings.

He rocks in his seat, using his toes to push himself up. “Are you going to come back for anyone?”

“You’re the last person to go.”

“Really?”

“We’ve been getting people for the last hour or so. Because of your...how should I say, date, with Frederik, we had to postpone you.” 

The car is stopped at the lights. Nikolaj is too busy looking for any spectators to pay any attention to Connor, who is baffled.

“It wasn’t a date.”

“You know what I mean.”

He looks back at the sad, lonely intersection with a frown. “It wasn’t a date. Frederik was asking me to stay in Denmark. He said he would let Maria go if I did.”

Nikolaj rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. “The fact that you’re here proves you weren’t stupid enough to consider it, which I’m grateful for.”

“It makes me wonder what would’ve happened if I didn’t accept your offer.”

“You’d be arrested, I have no doubt about that. They’d come up with a cover story, say you were killed or abducted, and then take you in.”

“Why’d they even bother inviting us to see Denmark if at the end they were going to throw a cage on us?” He shakes his head. “It makes no sense.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The second your Canadian was put behind bars they had to start thinking about how to get rid of you or put you somewhere where you could be of use to them, depending on how much they liked you. They think next time it will be better.”

“Next time?”

“It’s over now but originally, they wanted to invite diplomats from Sweden and Germany and succeed where they failed with you. If you have any doubts about getting out now, just think of how many people you’re going to save by exposing them.”

“Thanks.” Connor’s voice is flat. A thought overcomes him. “Will he--Frederik and Lars--will they kill Maria when they find out I’m gone?”

“I doubt it, but Frederik might try to contact you once you get to Sweden, that’s why I’m asking you to stay low-profile even when you get there. Don’t go talking until you get back to Canada. For my sake. I don’t know how this will go down.”

“All right.”

The car screeches to a stop. Not expecting it, Connor’s head slams into the seat in front of him. If he had his belt on, it might have made a difference. All it does is make his adrenaline levels shoot up higher. His veins are pumping ice; his heart rate quickening by the second. He rubs what he’s sure is a giant red mark on his face from the impact.

He could use a drink.

The lady does not move to get out of the car. He sees her glance at him once using the rear-view mirrors and then return to touching buttons on the console. As Nikolaj is thanking her, Connor wraps his scarf around his mouth a second time to keep the saliva slicking his lips from freezing once they step outside. He doesn’t count on saying much more, so it makes no difference.

They’re at the same landing strip they landed on when they first arrived here. It feels like a completely different place when the sky is black and the only source of light comes from the landing strip system: what looks like small glass balls with souls inside of them running up and down the tarmac. They’ve cleared a path in the snow that leads to a blocky white shape in the distance. 

The plane is not a charter; it’s bloated in the belly portion and painted a slip of silver gray. A long scratch is down the side facing Connor, a jagged cut from what he presumes was a rocky landing. For a cargo plane, it’s small. The inside must be stacked to the brim with computers, wires, and cords. There will be hardly enough room to fit more people in if that’s the case.

Connor’s not complaining. He waits for instruction as Nikolaj pushes him forward with the palm of his hand. It appears that he has assembled a group of people to help him with the expedition, many of them men in their mid-to-late forties. One of them offers to take Connor’s travel bag from him to load into the tail-end of the plane.

To the casual observer, Connor would look foolish for holding it close to his chest like a child who doesn’t want to give up their favourite toy. But no one here sat beside him when Frederik sabotaged the trust that was freely given to him to read what was inside. Connor knows better by now.

Hot air is fanned over him in waves from the propellers, the engines whirr in the back of his ear. Nikolaj and his men hurry him up the ramp stairs located in the front beside the cockpit so that he can board the plane. Connor fights to keep his footing on the metal stairs, as they’re slicked over with ice. The pilot, or so he assumes because of the all-black uniform he’s wearing, holds his hand out for Connor to accept when he slips for the second time.

Connor looks back to thank Nikolaj, only to find the other man has turned his back on him. He has joined the group of men standing on the fringes of the runway. Their backs are pressed to the chain-link fence. They look resigned to the fact that what they’re doing is highly illegal. Not one of them has a lapse in composure.

The words dry up in Connor’s mouth. He takes the pilot’s hand and steps inside.

To his left is a hot plate with cold coffee sitting inside of it. Plastic bags are forced inside locker compartments, one on the ground used to collect used styrofoam cups and old newspapers. Curious, Connor shoves his arm down it and fishes out a stack dating back to a year ago. The front page is smeared with a sticky black liquid but he can make out a picture of the Prime Minister, one hand on the podium she’s behind and the other extended to the reader. He can’t decipher what the headline is saying.

But he doesn't need to understand Danish to read the no smoking signs plastered on almost every wall, window, and floor tile. They lead him back, to where the drains and smoke detectors sit in the docking space of the cargo hold. Only the most necessary of lights are on here. They outline the stacked towers of boxes and spare parts. There are no windows.

He hears someone  _ psst _ at him and looks down to the right. By the closed emergency hatch, in between two boards, sits a bunch of shadow figures. It’s too dark to make out any facial features but the white breath that escapes their mouths helps give him a headcount.

“Connor,” the voice rasps, “down here.”

He follows the voice to a face with no eyes and a mouth. A tongue pokes out from between the rows of teeth. Connor sits down beside him, letting his eyes adjust to the change in light levels. When the world begins to decompose into the shapes of people and rectangles, he spots the man’s stubble sticking out, the protrusion of his nose contoured by the floor lights.

“Robert!” Connor breathes. “Oh God, I didn’t know if you guys would be here or not.”

“‘Course we are, where else would we be?”

“I just assumed they didn’t ask you to come.”

“You think you’re the only one that’s had people talk to him? Please, I’ve known for a while. You were the one we were worried about. We had bets that you would sell us out to Andersen.”

“You know I’d never do that.”

“I kid. But I’m happy to see you. In one piece.”

Connor rubs his hands together to keep them warm, instantaneously more comforted by the presence of the Canadians here with him. He looks over the heads, trying to find Max’s square-rim glasses but without any luck.

The engines have started kicking up dust and snow. Connor raises his voice to make himself heard. “Where’s Max?” he shouts.

“He stayed behind to be with Maria.”

A knot ties in Connor’s brain.  _ “What? _ Is he crazy?”

“He was staying and nothing I said could convince him otherwise. I’m sorry.”

“Robert, he’s going to be thrown into jail for this. He’s the most important person we have on this visit. How could you let him do that?”

“You don’t think I know that? He said he wasn’t going to leave a Canadian behind and believe me, I tried to talk him out of it. He’s a grown man, set in his ways. But he gave me this, so everything we need is here.” For show, he lifts up what looks like a black potato bug shell with papers inside: Max’s binder.

“I’m not saying he’s not mature enough to make his own decisions, I’m saying that it’s dangerous; it’s probably going to get him killed.”

They’re beginning to attract an audience with their discussion. The other Canadians look on, mesmerized.

“Not to discourage you but Max said the exact same thing when  _ we _ didn’t want you to go off on your own. You turned out fine.”

“I came this close,” Connor pinches his thumb and pointer finger together, “to becoming a prisoner to a sociopathic criminal.”

“But you arguably have the most useful information, that and whatever we got on video.” He sticks one thumb upward and throws it back to point at what’s behind him.

Connor can see the assembly of camera equipment, in their various boxes and bags. The Canadians are scrunched into tight spaces and there the electronics sit, with ample room to breathe. Access to evidence like that is what got someone put behind bars, so he can see why they would get the first-class treatment.

The stairs are detached from the belly of the plane with a loud clang. The last that Connor hears of Nikolaj and the people he’s with is them scattering in every direction, the commotion a result of their confusion. Nikolaj sounded so sure of what he was doing earlier but that doesn’t mean Connor shares the same enthusiasm. Although he’s not a religious person, he says a quick prayer under his breath for their safety in the wake of what’s about to happen.

The pilot shouts something back in Danish. The only people that answer him are the few civilians that have hitched a ride to freedom on conditions that Connor’s not aware of. Robert is talking to him about it but Connor’s not paying attention. He’s trying to secure a place for himself in the crowd of cross-legged people, all quick to voice their displeasure about the situation that they’re in.

Once the plane speeds down the runway, the passengers grab onto the walls and the cargo for a hold. Connor applies pressure to his grip until he’s sure his fingers are turning white. Other bodies are crashing into him. The machinery has better protection than they do, strapped up in yellow belts that hug them to the floor. The plane picks up speed, squashing them flat to the boxes.

Eventually, the rumble of the plane wheels running on ground disappears. Connor opens his eyes, alive and untouched. He’s in a place he never expected to be, with people who are strangers. The adrenaline transforms into excitement, morbidly so. It might be because of the low cabin pressure or just vertigo. The sensation of being here is foreign to him.

That being said, the plane is not designed for human passengers. The floor rivets, while good for giving the cargo a grip to sit on top of, are unforgiving to sit on. Whenever they encounter turbulence the machinery groans. The giant human flesh pile wobbles because of how many bodies are stacked against each other. 

Connor waits until he thinks they’re safely in the air to do something about it. He spots a crawl-space to the left, one where if he flattens himself to the wall he could squeeze into the back. It’s better than starving for oxygen here.

“Hey Robert,” he taps the man’s chest with his knuckles, “I’m going to move to the back.”

Robert’s eyes are puffy. “You sure? I hope you didn’t take anything I said earlier to heart,” he says. His teeth are chattering.

“No, you’re fine. I just need some space.”

Besides his bottom lip curling in, Robert has no visual reaction. “Yeah, go ahead. We’ll be here.”

He hopes Robert knows it’s nothing personal. The other Canadians don’t have anything to say to him but why would they? From the sounds of it, he’s already made quite a reputation for himself.

Connor crawls on his hands and knees around the mountain of electronics. The weather conditions are far from desirable and staying low to the floor does not make travel easier. It feels like they’re affected by every chip of ice that touches the plane’s exterior. He doesn’t try to go far, weaselling his way into a cranny that a few people are using to hide inside.

Once seated, he sticks his legs out to help maintain his balance. Perspiration dots his forehead and he draws a long breath in, needing air more than ever. He hardly notices when the woman across from him asks if he’s alright. It’s only when she repeats her question, in English this time, that she’s brought to his attention.

She’s holding a small child in her right hand, pressing his face into her chest. He wails into the baggy sleeves of her winter jacket. Connor gets to his knees and kneels in front of her.

“I’m fine, thanks,” he answers her.

She goes back to consoling the child. Her touches are faint, stroking down his back and returning to pet his hair. It’s something you would do with a newborn.

“Is that your boy?” he asks.

At first, she looks surprised that he’s speaking to her. So devoted to her own motherly instincts, she’s probably on her last legs. Strands of hair stick out in every direction. It’s too dark to tell what colour her skin is, but it doesn’t look healthy.

Eventually, her head bobs. “Yes. Mine and George’s.” The people beside her open one eye when she speaks. Not for long, most of them lose interest and lie back once more.

“George?”

“My husband. We left because of him.”

“Oh. Where is he now?”

She looks skeptical. Connor is definitely pushing a personal boundary but he’s tired, cold, and straight to the point today.

“You can tell me. What are they going to do to you now? We’re safe,” he says.

It pushes her into a state of resignment. “One day I came home from work and he was gone. They have locked him up somewhere.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Her face deflates. The window of feeling is gone. “You are not really sorry but thank you,” she says, blunt.

Connor doesn’t know what she’s trying to say, so he glosses over it. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”

“He was in government. When the new prime minister came, he was taken. They wanted to take my son too.” She has confidence in her words but it’s clear that she’s not entirely comfortable with the English language yet. Connor tries to make it easier for her.

“Do you know where? Where they wanted to take your son, that is.” He points at the boy, who is eyeing him from his mother’s lap.

“They wanted to put him in one of the overnight schools and said it was too dangerous to use the roads. Every day they would ask me questions. Nikolaj said he could help us.”

“How do you know Nikolaj?”

“He worked for my husband. He offered to do this for me. He is a good man.”

“Yeah, he is. Again, I’m sorry this had to happen to you.” There’s probably a lot more to her story but it’s nothing Connor’s going to be able to access here. He’ll leave that to the Swedish authorities.

She holds her eyes down longer than she needs to. An uncomfortable silence stretches between them. Eventually, she gives up on Connor and focuses back on her child. She collects the boy in a hug, big enough for two people. The boy’s gangly legs kick out in two directions. One untied shoe comes dangerously close to tapping the cap of Connor’s knee.

Connor lifts his head to look at the group of Canadians. Then he looks at the Danes, who are hunched in the same positions but without any personal belongings to speak of. He doubts that whatever they have on paper will be able to save these people, but he can hope.

He pulls his knees up to his chest and scoots back so that he can press his back to the wall of the plane. His under eyes feel scratchy and the only relief from the instant heat is by closing them. He doesn’t fall asleep but instead, he enters a state of peace that’s hard to achieve otherwise, given the circumstances. It drowns out the worried murmurs of the Canadians who fear what the future will bring and the twitchy hand movements of the Danes who are waiting for the announcement that they’re in the clear.

Connor keeps to himself for the remainder of the ride. It takes longer than he’d hoped, but the announcement comes about forty-five minutes later that they’re about to start descending. It’s just words at first; he’s not impacted until the plane’s wheels touch Swedish soil. The sensation guts him.

He can hear some of the Danes sob when the first bump makes them go airborne. Everyone slides forward with the momentum of the plane, grabbing onto ledges and corners to keep themselves from crashing into the far wall. Some are less successful than others. Just as soon as it starts, the plane stops moving and the only thing they can hear is the heavy breathing of everyone sharing the cargo space.

The pilot exits the aircraft first, him being the mouthpiece of the whole operation. He’s out for a few minutes before the flashlights come in, the wielders wearing reflective construction vests. Their eyes are comically wide. One of them steps out to make a call.

In the meantime, the Swedes make people exit the plane single file, the people in the front leaving first. Connor’s due to follow them but hangs back to let the woman and her child go ahead of him. It makes no difference in the end, except to make him feel a bit better about his situation. When he comes around to where the cockpit is, he can see that the Canadians have decided to wait for him, despite them being called on already. Moonlight brightens their faces. They’re just as tired as him but also hopeful. They’ve made it.

The four Canadians walk out one by one, Connor bringing up the rear. Robert gets a photograph of what they’re looking at, for the viewers back home. Connor tries to step out of frame so that he won’t be in the way, even if that’s the intention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (cont)
> 
> Connor gets the call from Frederik two days after the announcement that they’re back in Canada. He takes it even when common sense would advise him not to.
> 
> Connor doesn't let Frederik get the first word in. “How are you calling me?”
> 
> “Don't pretend like your office's number isn't everywhere on the internet."
> 
> "I thought you exclusively forbid outward-bound phone calls there."
> 
> “Why did you leave.” Frederik skips answering to that.
> 
> “You were going to throw me in jail.”
> 
> “Not you, never you. I would never let them do anything.”
> 
> “You wanted to keep me there, it’s the same thing.”
> 
> “That's not true."
> 
> Connor grits his teeth. “What’s going to happen to Maria and Max?”
> 
> “Oh, so now you’re interested?”
> 
> “I was always willing to negotiate," Connor says. "The problem was you only had one demand and I couldn’t meet it.”
> 
> "Yes, because of your 'responsibility' to whatever cause. You can't actually think you're that important to them."
> 
> Connor wets his lips. “If I'm not important, why do you care if I'm there or not?"
> 
> "You know why. I don't have to spell it out for you."
> 
> "What you did to me was degrading. If you think I'd return any feelings you have for me, you're an idiot." He's shaking so hard that his head is rattling.
> 
> “I don't expect you to. But I regret taking you back to the hotel that night. I was waiting for the taste of victory, as you say. If I wasn't, you’d still be here. Maybe your feelings would change then."
> 
> “I guess I should be thanking you then."
> 
> The other end of the line crackles. "Don't be snark with me. It's not pretty on you."
> 
> "Then don't call me pretty. I really don't have anything else to say to you, so if you're finished--"
> 
> "Wait," Frederik's voice sobers up, "Connor, wait. Really think about what I said. If you really need the Canadians to be released, we could work something out."
> 
> Connor laughs in disbelief. "This has nothing to do with Denmark, does it? This is just about you."
> 
> "Of course. But I have the power to make decisions around here, don't you agree? Besides, Lars misses you."
> 
> "Well, tell Lars that I'm not coming back. I'm leaving negotiations to the professionals. And while you're there, tell him that I've already told the Canadians everything so he doesn't have to worry about keeping my mouth shut. "
> 
> He ends the call before Frederik gets a chance to argue with him. His phone rings again, and again, and again. Connor watches it without doing anything.
> 
> He gets the message Frederik was trying to send later, when one of the unassuming writes it down on a piece of paper and leaves it on his desk. He comes back from lunch to see it front and centre, scribbled in black marker.
> 
> _"Don't expect any favours from me."_   
> 

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on my [tumblr](https://cursivecherrypicking.tumblr.com/)


End file.
